a river ran along the road
for some way, very green and covered with water-lily pods.

We passed a standing carriage, in which was a large man in Montenegrin
clothes, and a little further on passed a man in a grey suit walking.
Dr. Ob gesticulated wildly, and pulled up the motor to gather in a
Frenchman--somebody in the French legation who was going to Scutari for
a week end. He turned suddenly to Jan.

"Ce n'est pas une vie, monsieur," were the first words he uttered. He
admired Miss Petrovitch very much, and told us in an undertone that she
was a daughter of the governor of Scutari, niece of the King of
Montenegro, and one of "les familles le plus chic."

We descended steeply to the Port, ten variously coloured houses and
twenty-five variously clothed people. Miss Petrovitch, to our amazement,
embraced a rather dirty old peasant, the doctor disappeared to find us
luncheon, the Frenchman to wash, and we strolled about.

A voice hailed us, and turning round, we found our mackintoshed American
of Pod. We took him to the inn and stood him a drink. Dr. Ob came in and
we introduced; but Dr. Ob was snifty and the American shy. His home was
near by and he wished us to visit him, but there was no time.

We lunched in a bedroom plastered with pictures. Montenegrins seem to be
ashamed of walls, and they adore royalty. In every room one finds
portraits of the King of Montenegro, the queen, the princes, the King of
Italy, his queen, the Tzar of Russia, the grand dukes and duchesses, the
King of Serbia and his princes, and to cap all a sort of comprehensive
tableau of all the male crowned heads of Europe--including
Turkey--balanced by another commemorating all the queens of
Europe--excluding Turkey--the spaces left between these august people
are filled with family portraits, framed samplers, picture postcards or
a German print showing the seven ages of man over a sort of step-ladder.

After lunch, loaded with grapes which Miss Petrovitch's peasant friend
brought us, we trooped down to the steamer, which had been an old
Turkish gun monitor and had been captured when the Montenegrins took
Scutari.

The boat was crowded, and the Frenchman took refuge in the captain's
cabin, which was crammed with red pepper pods, and went to sleep. Jo
began sketching at once. There were two full-blooded niggers aboard with
us: they were descendants of the Ethiopian slaves of the harems; but the
race is dying out, for the climate does not suit