he Turkish populace literally cut him to pieces--a fate
which the devoted man well knew would befall him.

This and other events led up to the attack made by the Turkish troops
on the tribe of Kuc, when, at Fundina, Marko and his small tribe smote
the Moslems hip and thigh. The rest is a matter of history. He had
died but a few months before our visit, and by his last wish was
buried in the little fortress of Medun, which many years ago he had
stormed at the head of a handful of men under circumstances of great
bravery.

The ride thither gave us our first taste of the mountains. Rough,
stony paths through rocky ravines, sometimes skirting deep precipices,
and all round the intensely wild and magnificent mountains, led us to
the great gorge where Medun is situated. Perched on a seemingly
inaccessible crag, stands the famous ruined fortress, and at its foot
Marko's house.

We were made welcome by his widow, a regal woman of middle age, and
still strikingly handsome. Her dead husband was not only a great hero,
but a poet and historian, and one of the most remarkable features of
his life was that, at the age of forty, he taught himself to write,
and made his name famous as well in the Serb literary world. He had
always treated her as his companion, and not as the average
Montenegrin treats a woman--as a being of inferior quality and a
better class of servant. Marko had a wonderful character; a great
athlete, perfect rifle-shot, and a military warrior and leader of men,
he brought home during his campaigns over one hundred Turkish heads;
but he was also a refined gentleman, a true poet, and merciful to his
enemies. He was a notable exception in the matter of prisoners--he
always let them go unharmed, sometimes escorting them himself to a
place of safety.

Our visit gave much gratification to his widow, who was pleased that
strangers from such a distant land should wish to visit her husband's
grave, and she was hospitality itself.

After a rest and food in her house, she conducted us herself up the
steep winding path to the grave. We came abruptly upon a small plateau
in front of a tiny chapel. The scene was striking in the extreme.
There was the grave, with a rough pile of stones at the head, on which
were placed the dead man's "handjar," revolver and sword, and many
wreaths. Two lighted candles were flickering in the wind, and in a
semicircle stood a group of rough, fully-armed mountaineers, the
retainers of the Voiv