"Oh, thou grey falcon, who was so mighty a hunter as thou?"

"Who indeed shall now wield thy bloodstained sword?"

"Oh, thou wolf, who is worthy to take thy place as our ruler and father?"

And the others beat their b.r.e.a.s.t.s and tore their hair, wailing in a wild unison, until the singer was exhausted and then another began.

Here and there a deep sob broke from a man, but otherwise the ring of men with bowed heads remained in dead silence and immovable as the rocks around them.

It was one of the most impressive scenes it has been our fortune to witness, but we were glad when the widow rose and conducted us back to the house. Some letters and poems of the Voivoda were shown to us, and one of the letters to a friend then present in the room was read aloud. The great rough Montenegrin was so touched at hearing the words of his master and lord, that he turned away his head and sobbed. All this time the women ceased not with their wild lamentations, and even after we took our leave and started on our rough ride home in pouring rain, that death dirge followed us, echoing in the ravines and mountains.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE GRAVE SCENE AT MEDUN]

Since then we have often heard the death dirge sung in Montenegro.

Sometimes in a house in pa.s.sing; again, an old woman trudging to market will sing the death dirge of a relation, perhaps dead many years. But we never heard those piercing, wailing notes without having the picture of Medun recalled vividly to our memory.

When a man dies he is laid out in the sitting-room, and all the friends and relations are summoned. Then the men enter the room singly and approach the corpse. Tearing open their shirts they beat themselves with their fists on their naked b.r.e.a.s.t.s, often tearing the flesh with their nails, and give vent to ear-piercing wails. Each new-comer strives to outdo his predecessor in excesses, and horrible scenes ensue. But the Prince discountenances this custom, and it is slowly dying out, but only in the upper cla.s.ses.

We often took our rifles and went out into the country for a little target practice, and always succeeded in attracting a group of spectators from adjacent villages or huts. Towards Albania we were requested not to go for shooting, as the noise of rifle-shots is apt to mislead the surrounding villagers. Even when shooting in other directions, we were carefully warned not to fire rapidly, but to shoot slowly and deliberately, as at target practice.

Rapid firing is "the alarm," and would mobilise a brigade of infantry within an hour or two.

On one occasion we were shooting at a somewhat difficult object about one hundred and fifty yards away. We were trying to hit it, standing, and had not succeeded. A group of some twenty men had collected, and they soon began to make facetious remarks. One offered to bring the target nearer. Another said he would stand target for a few shots--we shouldn't hit him. So we gave one or two of them our rifles and told them to hit it. Immediately they selected stones as rests, and lay down for their shot.

"Ah," said we, "we can do that; shoot as we do, standing, and without a rest."

"That," they said, "is not shooting--who shoots like that in war?"

But we were inexorable, and needless to say they failed to hit anywhere near.

The Montenegrins are good shots enough, if they can take long and deliberate aim, steadying their rifles on walls or rocks, but otherwise they are miserable marksmen.

Quite close to Podgorica there lives a hermit, a wonderful man who has hewn out of the living rock a tiny chapel, a store-room, and a pa.s.sage leading to the chapel. He has only just completed it, and we inscribed our names in his new book as his first visitors.

[Ill.u.s.tration: VOIVODA MARKO]

[Ill.u.s.tration: SIMEON POPOVIC AND HIS CHAPEL]

The hermit, a priest of most refined manners and appearance, named Simeon Popovic, was most delighted at our visit. He spoke Russian and French fluently; his story is quite a little romance.

Before he took Orders he had been a soldier, and was a rich man. It was while he was absent on a campaign that his wife eloped and his relations robbed him of all his money. He returned home to find himself wifeless, dishonoured, and a beggar. Then he became a priest, and a vision appeared to him, showing him Daibabe, where he now lives, commanding him to go and build a church. He refused the offer of a rich priorship and came to this place, possessed of no means whatever wherewith to commence his life's work. Unable to buy building materials, he began to hollow out a church from the rock, without help or money of any kind, beyond that given him by the pious but direly poor peasants of the neighbourhood. The labour must have been immense, but there it stands a monument to man's perseverance and faith.

Simeon is reckoned as a saint by the peasants; they come to him from all parts of the country, bringing their sick, and many cures are said to have been effected there. He is a vegetarian, and subsists solely on the products of his little garden.

Spu lies on the River Zeta, and must be reached by a bridge. It is always safer to dismount when crossing a Montenegrin bridge, off the main roads. This was no exception, but the scenery was delightful.

Rising immediately at the back of the village is a steep hill crowned by a mighty fortress. It was held formerly by the Turks, and the peasants say that it was built by them; but the architecture is distinctly Venetian and an exact counterpart of many fortresses in Dalmatia.

It is strange, however, for there are no records that the Venetians ever came further inland than Scutari.

The inn at Spu, where we dined, was as other country inns (or krcma, or han, as they are locally termed from the Turkish): earthen floor, a bench, a few primitive stools and beds in the only reception-room. The table is invariably rickety, so are the stools; but a tablecloth, knives and forks are always mysteriously produced for guests even in the most out-of-the-way places.

While our repast was being prepared we had a revolver shooting compet.i.tion outside the door, to which the whole village flocked. One of the men made a very fine shot from his saddle at a tree-stump in the river, about two hundred and fifty yards away, and _hit_ within a few feet. It proved the accuracy and carrying distance of the Montenegrin revolver.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SPU]

After our meal, consisting of raw ham, eggs (oh, those everlasting eggs!), and a peculiar and nondescript kind of meat, about which we asked no questions, the village captain called on us and bore us off to his house for coffee.

This man, a Turkish renegade, was one of the most interesting men whom we met. He was a marvellous talker--in fact, he never stopped during our visit. How the subject came up has pa.s.sed my memory, but suddenly he rushed out of the room and brought back a handful of little medals.

"Look," he said, "each medal represents a human life, a head. We have these given us for every head we bring back in war. Do you think I am proud of them, and there are more than fifty? No, I weep when I see them. When I had seized my foe by his hair preparatory to cutting off his head, a vision of his mother, his wife, and his sisters appeared before me, and I could have wept as I struck off his head. Why should I kill this man? I asked myself. I know him not, he has done me no harm, yet because it is war, arranged by princes and kings, we must become murderers. And why should I kill him? because others would misconstrue my act of mercy if I did it not, and brand me a coward, aye and worse, a traitor. Why should _I_ make that mother childless?

why must _I_ rob that loving wife of her husband? Why _I_ be the means of making those little children fatherless and orphans?"

I confess the picture that he conjured up of solemnly and with streaming eyes cutting off his enemies' heads--and he had owned to over fifty--as he thought of dest.i.tute homes and weeping women and children, seemed decidedly tragi-comic; but the old man was earnest enough, and was quite unconscious of the grim humour of the situation.

"Why," he went on, excitedly pacing the room, "why do not the German Emperor and the King of England fight out their quarrels _alone_? Why drag thousands of men from their homes and farms to fight _their_ quarrels?"

Again the idea of our King fighting a solemn duel, with perhaps Maxims, over a question of an island in the Pacific, with the German Emperor, while admiring millions looked on and applauded, caused a smile which we with difficulty repressed from diplomatic reasons.

He took his scimitar now in his hand.

"Look, too, at the generals," he said excitedly, "directing battles from safe places, while hundreds of innocent lives are thrown away in an a.s.sault which that general has ordered from his place of safety.

Once," he went on--"I was fighting for the Turks then, and commanded a body of soldiers--a general came to me, saying, 'Storm that hill,' and I answered, 'No; thou art our leader, lead us to the a.s.sault.' And he refused, saying, 'How can I direct the battle if I lead this attack--who shall take my place if I fall?' And I drew my sword"--and here he suited his action to his words--"and said I would kill him if he did not take his true position as leader of men and lead us to the attack--then I and my men would follow wherever he went. And the general, who was a brave man, led us to the a.s.sault and fell--but we took the hill and the battle was won."

It was strange talk to hear from such a man, little better than a savage, yet unlike any of his adopted countrymen. That man in a civilised country would have made himself known and even celebrated.

Not far from Podgorica, at the junction of the rivers Moraca and Zeta, lie the remains of the once famous Dioclea or Dukla, as it is locally called. The town is of Roman origin, and was surrounded by a complete moat, which the Romans formed by digging a channel between the rivers.

It must have been a place of immense strength in the olden days, but successive generations of warfare, which raged so pitilessly in this district, have levelled it to the ground, and to-day little or nothing can be seen from the adjoining roadway. On approaching there is also very little to be seen, here and there a wall, and small fragments of mosaic floors. Coins and other relics are still found in large quant.i.ties, and it seems a pity that excavation, which could do so much, has been only carried on in a very halting and desultory manner.

Legend and history relate that the famous Roman Emperor Diocletian was born here, and gave his name to the town. The district of Dioclea, which was one of the seven confederate Serb states formed by Heraclius to repel the attacks of the Avars, is in reality the germ of modern Montenegro.

CHAPTER VIII

Achmet Uiko tells his story--Sokol Baco, ex-Albanian chief--Shooting on the Lake of Scutari--Our journey thither--Our frustrated nap--Arrival at the chapel--The island of Vranjina--The priest--Fishing and fishermen--Our visitors--We return to Podgorica.

One market day, walking through the streets of Podgorica, we overheard a strange conversation. A Montenegrin Turk was sitting on a stone, when two Albanians approached him. Touching his revolver, one of the Albanians said--

"Sooner than own the whole of Montenegro, would I empty _this_ into thy body."

The Turk, a small man, with slightly grey hair, looked up, and said indifferently--

"And thy desire is mine."

So they separated.

Almost immediately an acquaintance joined us, and we asked him the meaning.