; many
generations of fighting ancestors have bequeathed a smartness and
accuracy of movement which can be envied by many a Continental trained
conscript.

The traveller meets with little attention either here or in Cetinje.
It is not till he gets well off the beaten track that he sees the
hospitable and courteous Montenegrin as he really is.

[Illustration: NJEGUSI]

[Illustration: THE GUSLAR]

During our frugal breakfast of raw ham and goat's cheese, our
ears were assailed by the singing of the guslar, or Montenegrin
troubadour. The guslars, we noticed, are invariably blind, and as no
previous musical education seems necessary, it would appear to be a
monopoly of those so afflicted. Their singing is execrable according
to Western notions, a range of four or five notes in a wailing minor
key making up their register, and they accompany themselves on an
instrument (the gusla) from which they derive their name. It is
hand-made, resembling a cross between a violin and a mandolin. It
possesses one string, and is played with a short curved bow. With
careful handling, a series of discordant notes of wearying monotony
can be produced. The performance is altogether most doleful.

Yet they are the history books, the legend tellers of the country.
They fan the fire of patriotism and loyalty by songs of the deeds and
accomplishments of their Prince, of dead heroes and past glorious
battles, and form another link with the mediaeval world of which the
traveller is so strongly reminded at every step in Montenegro.

As we left the village we passed the birthplace of Prince Nicolas I.,
though the palace appears to have been entirely rebuilt. In nearly
every town or village of importance the Prince has a house, varying
considerably in size, but of equally unpretentious exterior.

The road still climbs and reaches the maximum height of three thousand
five hundred feet. From this altitude it steadily drops into Cetinje,
which lies about two thousand feet above the sea-level. The scenery is
unvarying, but not without beauty. It is essentially wild, but the
light colour of the rocks and the numerous shrubs which find a footing
in the crevices minimise the forbidding character of the country. The
land is magnificently adapted for guerilla warfare, where every foot
can be contested. Little patches of earth, washed down the hillsides,
lie in every hollow, and have been utilised by the careful peasant to
grow his tiny crops.

After