gga mixed before us--to make an appetite, as he said.

We got to love Podgorica in the end, and left its streets, full of
gaudy-coloured humanity, the old shot-riddled town across the river,
and the glorious mountain panorama, with sorrow. There was always
something to talk about, from a threatened raid of the Albanians to
the abduction of a Turkish maiden. Death is always very near in that
unknown border town.

The day of our final departure from Podgorica, we drove to the famous
Crna Zemlja, or Black Earth.

The object of our visit was chiefly to call on a young Albanian, who
had repeatedly invited us. Though an Albanian, he is a Montenegrin
subject and a corporal in the standing army.

As a matter of fact, he is a fugitive from his clan, the Klementi,
where his life is forfeited in a blood feud. The Prince wisely uses
such men as a kind of extra border guard, giving them land and houses
on the actual frontier line, knowing that they will keep a doubly
sharp watch to preserve their own lives.

The Black Earth is an absolutely flat and treeless plain, covered at
times with grass, which mischievous Albanians love to set fire to in
the hopes of some sport with peasants, who might attempt to
extinguish the conflagration. The River Zem divides it and constitutes
the boundary, but the land on both sides is neutral by mutual consent.
It is courting death to walk upon it. Block-houses dot it at frequent
intervals, containing small garrisons of Montenegrin and Turkish
soldiers.

As we drove past the first Montenegrin block-house, we were reminded
of a ride which we once took to it, while our knowledge of the border
dangers was nil. On that occasion we had cantered, innocently,
straight towards it, and were amused to see its little garrison
promptly turn out. A man came running towards us motioning us to halt.
This unmistakable request we suddenly obeyed, for the men behind had
covered us with their rifles.

Explanations followed, and the rest of the men came up smiling; but
they sent us back towards Podgorica at once, which was only half an
hour's ride away--saying that a bullet from the overlooking hill would
be no unusual thing.

To-day we left this block-house on our left, and, striking the Zem, we
drove along it till we reached a solitary house. A few hundred yards
further down was a Turkish fort, with the banner of the Star and
Crescent hanging lazily at the mast.

This house was the home of our friend, quite