a.

On the 14th I drove down to Cattaro with my sister to see her off by
steamer. Cattaro, as usual in the summer, lay panting at the water's
edge. No more news; any amount of gossip; the Petrovitches were
tottering, said some; Prince Mirko had lately fought a duel upon
Austrian territory with his brother, Prince Danilo; they would
certainly fight for the throne. The Austrian papers were full of
"digs" at the Petrovitches. I arrived back at Cetinje on the evening
of the 15th to find it beflagged and rows of tallow candles stuck
along my bedroom window for the coming illuminations. A telegram had
announced the election by the Shkupstina of "our son-in-law" and his
accession had already been celebrated by a service at the Monastery
Church and a military parade.

"Bogati!" cried Vuko to me, "you are better informed than all the
diplomatists." He added that there was to be a gala performance at
the theatre. I flew to the Zetski Dom. Not a seat was to be had. "If
you don't mind a crowd," said the ever-obliging Vuko, "you can come
into my box." And he hurried up dinner that we might all be in time.
The diplomatic table complimented me on having "spotted the
winner," and on either table lay a festive programme informing us
that the Serbian theatrical company, which had abruptly shed its
mourning, was giving a gala performance "in honour of the accession
of our beloved King Petar."

The theatre was packed from roof to floor. The performance opened
with a tableau--a portrait of Petar I, bewreathed and beflagged. A
speech was made. There were shouts of "Zhivio!" ("Long life to him!"
an eminently suitable remark under the circumstances). The whole
house cheered. I felt like an accessory after the act. Up in the
Royal Box, the only representatives of the reigning house, sat
Prince Mirko and his wife. I watched his stony countenance. But for
the devil and Holy Russia, we might have been shouting "Zhivio Kralj
Mirko!" I wondered if it hurt badly and felt sorry for him, for I
have been ploughed in an exam, myself.

We were a tight fit in our box. Gazivoda, head of the police at
Podgoritza and brother-in-law to Vuko, was there. He, too, was
assassinated a few years afterwards. And there was a crowd of Vuko's
pretty daughters. The eldest, still a pupil at the Russian Girls'
School (Russia Institut) was shuddering with horror at the crime.
"Poor Queen, poor Queen!" she muttered at intervals, "she was still
alive when they threw her