flock round, saying in coaxing tones "Garn," or
"Git away you," under the impression that they are saying "please."

At a street corner we saw a professional beggar, a shattered man of
drooping misery, his rags vieing with the colour of the road. Jo began
to sketch, but he promptly sat up, twirled his long moustaches, and from
a worm became a lion. One may be a beggar in Albania, but as long as one
has moustaches one is at least a man.

The bazaar next day filled our wildest dreams. Queerly clad peasants of
all tribes came down from the mountains bearing rugs, rubbish, white
cloths, cheese, honey, poultry, pigs, and they sat on the ground behind
their wares in the blazing heat, while all the rest of Northern Albania
came to purchase. The little shops set out their pottery, silver-ware
and brightly striped veils. Jo lifted up a woman's leather belt covered
with silver, thinking how nice it would look on a modern skirt; but she
dropped it with a crash, for the leather was a quarter of an inch thick,
and the silver equally weighty.

Veiled women bargained and chaffered with the rest, some dressed in
white with black chiffon covering their faces, and others still more
bizarre, wore flowered chiffon, one large flower perhaps covering the
area of one cheek and nose.

More fanatic in religion than their men, they objected to being
sketched, crouching to the ground and covering themselves completely
with draperies, so we had to desist.

There can be no arguments about beauty in these lands. It goes by
"volume."

Put the ladies on the scales, and in case of a tie, measure them round
the hips.

Vendors pressed gold-embroidered zouaves, antique arms and filigree
silver-ware upon us; but we ever looked elsewhere, and Jo suddenly
pounced on a handkerchief, or rather a conglomeration of bits sewn
together, each being a remnant of brilliant coloured patterned stuff.

"But that has no value," said Suma, smiling.

"Never mind, I shall wear it as a hat," said Jo; and Suma, somewhat
perplexed, lowered his dignity and bargained for it.

We next saw a brilliantly striped rug hanging on the wall behind an old
woman, red, green, yellow, black and white, just what we wanted. She
consented to take thirteen silver cronen for it, but no Montenegrin
paper. She explained she was poor. She had brought up the sheep, spun
and dyed the wool, and had woven the beautiful thing, and now she wanted
silver because outside Scutari, in which the