houses and huts of the clan of Zatrijebac on our way to Fundina. The
path tended downwards, and shortly the great plain of the Zeta burst
suddenly into view as we rounded a corner of the mountains. Beyond lay
the Lake of Scutari with its background of mountains.

It was early in the evening when we reined in our horses before a
modest stone house and dismounted. It was Fundina, a straggling
village built on the sloping sides of a mountain from which it takes
its name.

Voivoda Marko, the hero of Medun, defeated the Turks on these slopes
in the first engagement of the last war, successfully inaugurating
the campaigning which secured to Montenegro all the territory through
which we had been riding for so many weeks, including the towns of
Podgorica and Niksic, and the great valley now stretched at our feet.

Podgorica lies like an oasis of green trees on the rolling, but
treeless, plain.

The Albanian border is but a rifle-shot away, and the village of Dinos
and the fortress of Tusi are plainly to be seen.

We decided to spend the night here and hear Keco's story, though
Podgorica was only three hours' distance. It would be a fitting finish
to our mountain tour to sleep on the battlefield of Fundina, and in
the house of a modern hero.

"I warn you," remarked the doctor, "that Keco much belies his deeds by
his appearance."

Keco was not in his house when we arrived, and we had our ceremonial
and inevitable black coffee brought to us on a small natural platform
of rock overlooking the magnificent valley.

Shortly afterwards a small and insignificant man approached us, with
haggard looks and grey hair. He greeted the doctor effusively.

"This is Keco," said Dr. S.

As he took the tobacco tin which was proffered him his hands trembled
so excessively that the rolling of a cigarette was a work of art.

"His nerves are gone," explained the doctor. "He lives in hourly
danger of his life."

Keco soon left us to prepare our meal and quarters for the night, and
it was not till after supper, when we were seated round the fire in
his little house and smoking, that he would consent to tell his story.
Even then he spoke at first reluctantly, but soon warmed to his
subject. His wife was always present and looked anxious. Several men
were in the room.

"Though my hands tremble and my hair is growing white," he began, "yet
I do not fear death. We must all die, and I know that my fate must
speedily overtake me. This house I