secondary matter.

We now climbed a very steep hill. At the top we had to dismount, as a
narrow path, just wide enough for a horse, skirted along a great
precipice, looking straight down about one thousand feet. It was a
wonderful view, but not to be recommended to those suffering in any
way from giddiness.

We overlooked the great Vucipotok wood through which we had just
passed, and the whole valley of Gusinje. When we reached a place where
we were able to turn round with comfort, we stopped for the view. A
long, narrow valley, inclosed by the Procletia or "Damnable
Mountains," through which a river could be seen flowing, lay at our
feet. This was Gusinje, the forbidden land. With the aid of
field-glasses the town of Gusinje itself could be just distinguished,
a square and apparently walled-in town.[4] Very picturesque it looked
in the bright sunshine, the great green woods in the foreground, the
solemn and majestic snow mountains and the peaceful valley. Yet it is
inhabited by the most villainous and treacherous cut-throats in
Europe, an absolutely untameable tribe, who would die to the last man
to preserve their independence.

[Footnote 4: This, however, is not the case, as we afterwards learnt.]

When the path broadened out slightly our two guards left us and
returned home. Both emptied their magazines into the air at parting,
which we answered, and the din was tremendous. Below us was a small
village or collection of shepherds' huts, and, in that moment,
confusion reigned supreme. The men seized their rifles, the women
rushed into the huts, dogs barked, and horses stampeded. It seemed
rather thoughtless to thus alarm the village, but, on being
remonstrated with, the men only laughed and fired another shot. Had it
been a town below us the result might have been more serious.

A little further on, we stopped for rest and food at a narrow pass
overlooking Gusinje on the one side and Montenegro on the other. The
murdered Kuc general, whose memorial stone we had seen earlier in the
day, was buried here. Strange that his body should find its last
resting-place overlooking the home of his murderers.

By using the Montenegrin telephone (the art of talking at great
distances), we ordered some milk from the village below, and drank it
with that enjoyment which is only known to a thoroughly hungry and
thirsty man.

Our afternoon's ride was again particularly stiff. Climbing one hill,
Dr. S., who was leading, missed