rly and amiable gentleman who
claimed descent from Skenderbeg and toyed with the idea of ascending
the Albanian throne himself. He had, in fact, a considerable
following in the Northern mountains, for the name of Skenderbeg was
one to conjure with, and the Turkish Government prohibited the sale
of his picture post cards. He wrote that his secretary, "the
Egyptian," had reported his success in making my acquaintance and
begged that on my return I would meet him in Paris and discuss
matters of importance. This invitation I never accepted.

Cetinje I found bubbling over Albert Ghika. He had come with such
good letters of introduction that the Prince had appointed
Matanovitch as a sort of guard of honour to him. But when it became
apparent that he meant to use Montenegro as a safe spot whence to
make trouble across the border, and even began to scatter picture
post cards of the future King and Queen of Albania, he was asked to
leave the country. Matanovitch was very much chaffed about his share
in the expedition.

Orthodox Easter was due. I was told that having had an audience last
year it was correct for me to telegraph Easter greetings to Prince
Nikola, who was in his winter quarters at Rijeka. In reply came an
official intimation that I should call on him at three o'clock next
day. I was met by an officer of the Court and taken to the audience.
The old man was in the doorway when I arrived, and was very
friendly. He was, I fancy, bored to death at Rijeka, and glad of a
visitor from the great world outside. He led me into a small room
and insisted on my taking a very large chair, evidently his own
seat, while he sat down on one much too small for him, and began
very vividly to tell me of his first fight at Vuchidol in 1876 and
of the great battle of Grahovo where twelve of his relatives had
lost their heads. He was very lively, and there was something
extraordinarily old-world, even mediaeval, about him. I felt I was
in a by-gone century--at latest with Rob Roy. We must eat together
he said, and we had an odd meal of ham, hardboiled eggs, bread and
weak tea into which he hospitably insisted on putting five large
lumps of sugar with his Royal fingers. He pressed me to eat also the
wing of a fowl, but as it was but 3 p.m. this was quite impossible
for me. So after hoarse house-keeping whispers to his man, a bottle
of Marsala was produced and we drank healths. He questioned me about
my Albanian experiences and roared with