s. Then cups are produced, sugar
added, and the thick mixture poured out. This beverage is drunk when
it is cool enough, and when the grounds have sunk in a thick sediment
at the bottom of the cup.

[Illustration: A REALISTIC PERFORMANCE]

[Illustration: AN ALBANIAN HOME ON THE CRNA ZEMLJA]

The room, our treatment, and the coffee-brewing are typical of many
such visits that we paid in Montenegro.

Afterwards spirits were produced, tobacco tins exchanged, and
arms--rifles, revolvers, and handjars--inspected and criticised. Any
relics or curiosities are produced, and everyone becomes very
friendly.

Before we left, an old man (some relation of our host) came up as we
were examining a fine handjar, that heavy and hiltless sword which
forms part of both the Albanian and Montenegrin fighting kit, though
they are no longer universally carried in times of peace. The handy
revolver has replaced the former beltful of pistols and yataghan. But
in border fighting the handjar is always taken, and, when time
permits, the victim is still decapitated by a single blow of that
murderous weapon.

The old man--a villainous-looking rascal, with shaven head and
scalping lock--favoured us with a graphic mimicry of a fight, showing
the methods in his day. He took the handjar between his teeth and a
musket in his hands, yelling and scowling fearfully; then, the last
cartridge fired or the moment for hand-to-hand combat arrived, the
rifle was thrown away, and brandishing the handjar in the air, he
darted towards us. It was a most realistic performance, and made us
feel thankful that it was only play.

Suddenly the old man stopped his wild yelling and burst out laughing.
He laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.

We glanced behind us at the loophole door, and there, with a horrified
look, peered our driver, revolver in hand.

He thought that we were being murdered. He was a foreigner and new to
Podgorica, but more of him anon.

Then we took our leave and drove on to another block-house, and
visited the commandant. After that we returned to Podgorica, and that
afternoon, affectionate leave-takings over, we departed for Cetinje,
en route for Cattaro.

That drive, which should have taken about seven hours, was a memorable
one, and a fitting conclusion to our visit.

We wired to the hotel in Cetinje in the morning, ordering supper to be
ready for eight o'clock. Then we had hoped to leave at one p.m. At two
we again wired from