e
thee that night, knowing thee to be a violent-tempered man; I provoked
thee into insulting me. I hoped thou wouldst have struck me, and then
it would have been easy. Thou wast very near death at that moment, for
in spite of thy gun I could have shot thee, but thou hadst grown too
much into my heart. Even in my rage I was powerless. And now here is
thy money. I have kept my word, and am an honourable man.'

"I sprang from my bed and stopped him. 'Who was my enemy?' I cried.

"'One who knew thee in Bosnia. This man had hoped that thou wouldst
visit him, and thy coffee was ready poisoned. When I left thy service
another man was hired to kill thee, but I followed thee wherever thou
went. Thus didst thou see me these three times.'

"I knew now who my enemy was. A man exiled by the Austrians for
treasonable practices whilst I was still an official in Bosnia. Marko
accompanied me to the ship, but not until I swore on my honour to
otherwise throw the money into the sea would he accept it, and then
only that which he had actually earned, not a kreutzer more, for I
would have willingly made him a present. Thus Marko Ivankovic went out
of my life, but I shall never forget him."

Such was the story we heard one evening in Podgorica, and which we
were here able to prove in part. When Marko heard that we were friends
of his former master, his face lighted up with joy, and he kissed our
hands. During our stay he was always with us, a devoted attendant and
servant. Another very interesting phase of his life had been spent in
the Hercegovina, where he fought as an outlaw for many years against
the Austrians. He still possesses two mementoes of his adventures in
that land, one in the form of an officer's undress jacket, technically
called a "blouse," and the other of a more permanent character,
namely, a maimed hand. He and his band were surprised one night by
gendarmes, and a fierce hand-to-hand fight ensued, during which an
Austrian aimed a cut at Marko with his sword. Marko caught the blow on
his hand and held the blade fast, but the gendarme drew back the
weapon sharply and severed all the tendons of his hand. Marko cannot
now open his hand, but his wounder was sped to the happy
hunting-grounds there and then, as he modestly relates.

Shooting of the same kind as on the Lake of Scutari is to be found in
abundance all round Dulcigno. Unfortunately the Bojana and the
afore-mentioned island at its mouth was closed to us. The even