to hit it. Immediately they selected stones as rests, and lay
down for their shot.

"Ah," said we, "we can do that; shoot as we do, standing, and without
a rest."

"That," they said, "is not shooting--who shoots like that in war?"

But we were inexorable, and needless to say they failed to hit
anywhere near.

The Montenegrins are good shots enough, if they can take long and
deliberate aim, steadying their rifles on walls or rocks, but
otherwise they are miserable marksmen.

Quite close to Podgorica there lives a hermit, a wonderful man who has
hewn out of the living rock a tiny chapel, a store-room, and a passage
leading to the chapel. He has only just completed it, and we inscribed
our names in his new book as his first visitors.

[Illustration: VOIVODA MARKO]

[Illustration: SIMEON POPOVIC AND HIS CHAPEL]

The hermit, a priest of most refined manners and appearance, named
Simeon Popovic, was most delighted at our visit. He spoke Russian and
French fluently; his story is quite a little romance.

Before he took Orders he had been a soldier, and was a rich man. It
was while he was absent on a campaign that his wife eloped and his
relations robbed him of all his money. He returned home to find
himself wifeless, dishonoured, and a beggar. Then he became a priest,
and a vision appeared to him, showing him Daibabe, where he now lives,
commanding him to go and build a church. He refused the offer of a
rich priorship and came to this place, possessed of no means whatever
wherewith to commence his life's work. Unable to buy building
materials, he began to hollow out a church from the rock, without help
or money of any kind, beyond that given him by the pious but direly
poor peasants of the neighbourhood. The labour must have been immense,
but there it stands a monument to man's perseverance and faith.

Simeon is reckoned as a saint by the peasants; they come to him from
all parts of the country, bringing their sick, and many cures are said
to have been effected there. He is a vegetarian, and subsists solely
on the products of his little garden.

Spuz lies on the River Zeta, and must be reached by a bridge. It is
always safer to dismount when crossing a Montenegrin bridge, off the
main roads. This was no exception, but the scenery was delightful.
Rising immediately at the back of the village is a steep hill crowned
by a mighty fortress. It was held formerly by the Turks, and the
peasants say that it was built by th