em; but the architecture is
distinctly Venetian and an exact counterpart of many fortresses in
Dalmatia.

It is strange, however, for there are no records that the Venetians
ever came further inland than Scutari.

The inn at Spuz, where we dined, was as other country inns (or krcma,
or han, as they are locally termed from the Turkish): earthen floor, a
bench, a few primitive stools and beds in the only reception-room. The
table is invariably rickety, so are the stools; but a tablecloth,
knives and forks are always mysteriously produced for guests even in
the most out-of-the-way places.

While our repast was being prepared we had a revolver shooting
competition outside the door, to which the whole village flocked. One
of the men made a very fine shot from his saddle at a tree-stump in
the river, about two hundred and fifty yards away, and _hit_ within a
few feet. It proved the accuracy and carrying distance of the
Montenegrin revolver.

[Illustration: SPUZ]

After our meal, consisting of raw ham, eggs (oh, those everlasting
eggs!), and a peculiar and nondescript kind of meat, about which we
asked no questions, the village captain called on us and bore us off
to his house for coffee.

This man, a Turkish renegade, was one of the most interesting men whom
we met. He was a marvellous talker--in fact, he never stopped during
our visit. How the subject came up has passed my memory, but suddenly
he rushed out of the room and brought back a handful of little medals.

"Look," he said, "each medal represents a human life, a head. We have
these given us for every head we bring back in war. Do you think I am
proud of them, and there are more than fifty? No, I weep when I see
them. When I had seized my foe by his hair preparatory to cutting off
his head, a vision of his mother, his wife, and his sisters appeared
before me, and I could have wept as I struck off his head. Why should
I kill this man? I asked myself. I know him not, he has done me no
harm, yet because it is war, arranged by princes and kings, we must
become murderers. And why should I kill him? because others would
misconstrue my act of mercy if I did it not, and brand me a coward,
aye and worse, a traitor. Why should _I_ make that mother childless?
why must _I_ rob that loving wife of her husband? Why _I_ be the means
of making those little children fatherless and orphans?"

I confess the picture that he conjured up of solemnly and with
streaming eyes cuttin