The next vision that met our eyes was the doctor in his best clothes, frock-coat, white spats, gloves, and a minute pork-pie cap perched on the top of his spherical countenance.

“In Scutari it is necessary that I should be en tenue,” was his explanation.

Suma parted with us, promising to take us to the bazaar the next day, and we spent the afternoon sketching and avoiding a dumb idiot who tried to amuse us by standing on his head in front of whatever object we chose to sketch, and at intervals thrust into our hands a letter which he thought was a money producing talisman.  It said in English, “Kick this chap if he bothers you.”

There are other traces of the English soldiery here.  Little children with outstretched hands flock round, saying in coaxing tones “Garn,” or “Git away you,” under the impression that they are saying “please.”

At a street corner we saw a professional beggar, a shattered man of drooping misery, his rags vieing with the colour of the road.  Jo began to sketch, but he promptly sat up, twirled his long moustaches, and from a worm became a lion.  One may be a beggar in Albania, but as long as one has moustaches one is at least a man.

The bazaar next day filled our wildest dreams.  Queerly clad peasants of all tribes came down from the mountains bearing rugs, rubbish, white cloths, cheese, honey, poultry, pigs, and they sat on the ground behind their wares in the blazing heat, while all the rest of Northern Albania came to purchase.  The little shops set out their pottery, silver-ware and brightly striped veils.  Jo lifted up a woman’s leather belt covered with silver, thinking how nice it would look on a modern skirt; but she dropped it with a crash, for the leather was a quarter of an inch thick, and the silver equally weighty.

Veiled women bargained and chaffered with the rest, some dressed in white with black chiffon covering their faces, and others still more bizarre, wore flowered chiffon, one large flower perhaps covering the area of one cheek and nose.

More fanatic in religion than their men, they objected to being sketched, crouching to the ground and covering themselves completely with draperies, so we had to desist.

There can be no arguments about beauty in these lands.  It goes by “volume.”

Put the ladies on the scales, and in case of a tie, measure them round the hips.

Vendors pressed gold-embroidered zouaves, antique arms and filigree silver-ware upon us; but we ever looked elsewhere, and Jo suddenly pounced on a handkerchief, or rather a conglomeration of bits sewn together, each being a remnant of brilliant coloured patterned stuff.

“But that has no value,” said Suma, smiling.

“Never mind, I shall wear it as a hat,” said Jo; and Suma, somewhat perplexed, lowered his dignity and bargained for it.