thing had been previously explained to him about us, he
covered his mystification by hailing us jovially, after which he
misconstrued everything we said.

He became very excited when we said we had brought 14,000 kilos of
stores into Montenegro.

"But we have not got it yet," he ejaculated. We explained that it was
for the English hospital, and he subsided, very disappointed.

Scutari was talked over again, and Dr. Ob promised to come and tell us
that evening if Cettinje could supply a motor for the next morning.

More bows and smiles, and we left wondering. Montenegrins always promise
even when they have no intention of performance--something like the
stage Irishman,--and we were surprised when Dr. Ob met us in the evening
and said that the motor was arranged for next morning at eight.

We tea'd with the count once more. In the next house lived a gorgeous
old gentleman, and we heard that he had been War Minister for forty odd
years. After thirty years or so of office it was considered that he
could better uphold the dignity of his position were he able to sign his
name. So he had to learn.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER VIII

THE LAKE OF SCUTARI

Dr. Ob, dressed in thick corduroys and an enormous pith helmet, arrived
punctually with the motor, a Montenegrin Government motor. He had two
companions, a girl simply dressed with coat and skirt which did not
match, and cotton gloves whose burst finger ends were not darned, a Miss
Petrovitch, and an officer. The coachwork--if one may dignify it by such
a phrase--which was made from packing cases, had a thousand creaks and
one abominable squeak, which made conversation impossible. The scenery
was all grey rock and little scrubby trees; the road was magnificent and
wound and twisted about the mountain side like a whip lash. Driving down
these curves was no amateur's game, and we saw immediately that our
chauffeur knew his job. We came over a ridge, and in the far distance,
gleaming like the sun itself, a corner of the Lake of Scutari showed
between two hill crests.

We ran into a fertile valley, passed through Rieka--where was the first
Slavonic printing-press--and up into the barren mountains once more.
The peasants seem very industrious, every little pocket of earth is here
carefully cultivated and banked almost in Arab fashion. The houses, too,
were better, and rather Italian with painted balconies, but are built of
porous stone and are damp in winter. The Riek