e the
Princes take steamer and have a tedious wait in the inn at Virpazar.

To this inn we went--there was no choice about it; it is the only one,
and, moreover, there is but a single room for guests, serving as
dining and sleeping apartment. Though we arrived at midday, we had to
wait till the following day at noon for the postcart--twenty-four
hours in this very uninteresting hole.

But we hobnobbed with the local grandees, for there is the district
law court here (the captain and magistrate have their residences in
the village), and managed to pass the time fairly agreeably. In the
evening we sat under the trees in front of our humble yet princely
hostel, and talked of many things to our newly made friends. The frogs
in the marshes made a terrific noise, almost drowning our
conversation.

Next morning we entered the post-chaise, in which we had wisely booked
all the four seats, and made a start on our six hours' drive. What
would have happened had other travellers arrived is hard to imagine. A
wait of forty-eight hours till the next post went would have probably
caused annoyance, and this carriage was literally the only means of
conveyance on this side of Montenegro. It goes one day and returns the
next. Fortunately, passengers are extremely rare. The drive was of
great interest, winding up in a series of sweeping curves between
magnificent hills. The ridge on our left was the site of a great
battle in the last war, when a small Montenegrin force dislodged a
large Turkish army and captured Antivari and the long-coveted sea. The
danger and recklessness of the feat was apparent from the road, and it
was evidently not expected by the Turks, for a false step on those
rocky heights meant certain death.

[Illustration: ANTIVARI ON BAR]

The top of the Sutormann Pass (2,700 feet) was reached in about four
hours, and now the deep blue Adria was spread out before us, and our
tortuous descent commenced. Commanding the pass still stands a mighty
but much-battered fortress, taken by the gallant Montenegrins in
that memorable battle. But nowhere could the historical old town and
fortress of Bar, or Antivari, be seen. In fact, not till we were
within a few hundred yards of the town, was a single house in view. It
is hidden from sight in a hollow, surrounded by a forest of olive
trees.

All of a sudden the carriage drew up at a recently built stone house,
ornamented with the trophies of war. Piles of cannon-balls, old
cann