eye on the horses. The roof must always be watched, for the
Albanians usually creep up and climb on to it--it is always
conveniently low--they then remove a board and shoot the sleeping
inmates.

During my watch I was told the following story, which brings out many
interesting traits of the Montenegrin character.

A certain man named Gjolic, of the tribe of Vasovic, killed two men of
his clan over a love affair, and promptly fled to Gusinje, the country
just opposite Carina, and inhabited by a tribe of Albanians, famed
for their blood-thirstiness and hatred of strangers. The only passport
to their land is crime, and no one but a fugitive from justice can
hope to enter, or leave it, alive. Gjolic swore to have revenge on his
clan, and in this respect he was a notable exception. He came
repeatedly across the border, often in broad daylight, shooting anyone
whom he met. He soon became the terror of the whole Vasovic. In the
neighbourhood of Carina he had shot many shepherds, and last autumn he
murdered a youth of sixteen. This was too much, and two men laid their
heads together. To obtain the necessary right of entrance to Gusinje,
they crossed over into Turkey and deliberately stole a cow, taking
care at the same time that they should be arrested and sentenced to
punishment. Their plan acted admirably, and they effected their
escape, fleeing to Gusinje, where they were received in a friendly
manner. But Gjolic was away, and for six months they waited for him in
patience. At last news came that he was on his way home, and could be
expected on a certain day. So the men went out to meet him, and began
shooting fish in a river where he must pass. Fish shooting is a common
and favourite sport of the people.

"God help you," said a voice, "has your luck been good?"

It was Gjolic who spoke.

"Our luck is good," they answered, and following an imaginary fish
with their rifles, they turned on him.

Crack! Crack! Gjolic was dead.

That scene I shall never forget. The starless night, all round the
land lying enshrouded in impenetrable darkness, the low voice of the
Montenegrin which rose with his excitement, but sank again immediately
to a hoarse whisper, and on the barely discernible roof of the hut a
black figure, with rifle at the ready, sitting motionless.

It was eleven o'clock when I turned in, and the next man took his
rifle and went outside to relieve one of the watchers. A roaring fire
was kept going, for it was