It was climbing or rather scaling a small rock that my long-expected fall came.  Alat, my horse, floundered badly at an angle of forty-five degrees and lost his balance completely.  The doctor, who was behind, shouted to me to pull him up, but as I was sliding off his back with a broken girth at an ever-increasing velocity, I was unable to follow this very excellent advice.  Down I came heavily on the stones, luckily on the high side of the path, landing on my back with my legs all mixed up in Alat’s.  My saddle and saddlebags followed me in quick succession, and something hit me violently over the head—­that was my carbine.  Providentially Alat stood still, and my cartridge belt saved my back.

I got up when I could sort out my legs, making remarks to Dr. S. about that girth which he said afterwards were quite artistic.  Many, many years ago the girth may have been good and strong, and it had undoubtedly seen better days.  Next I sought one named Stephan.  He had always assured me that it would last another week.  Montenegrins are careless about such things.

The rest of the way I had to walk, which dried me, as the path was steep and tiring.  At the house of Dr. S. in Podgorica we had met a young Franciscan monk, a Neapolitan and a great student.  He at once invited us to visit him in Zatrijebac, where he is the spiritual shepherd, and to spend a few weeks with him.  On approaching a roofless church, in the course of rebuilding, we espied this young monk rushing to meet us.  With all the fervour of his race, he embraced and kissed us repeatedly, welcoming us to his home.  He gave me his bed, and the other remaining one was put at P.’s disposal, and he would not hear of our leaving next day or the next.

There are but two other Roman Catholic churches in Montenegro, in Antivari and Dulcigno,[6] in fact only where the Albanians are in sufficient evidence.

[Footnote 6:  The Austrian Legation in Cetinje has also its own chapel.]

We had intended to visit Zatrijebac at the beginning of our mountain tour, but the district was considered unsafe at that time.  A quarrel over the appointment of a new captain had led to the relations of the disappointed candidate shooting the brother of the new captain.  Two boys, aged fifteen and sixteen respectively, had ambushed their victim, and put no less than seven bullets into him at a distance of four hundred yards, which is pretty good shooting.  The boys got away across the border, but wholesale arrests took place, and it is not well to visit districts thus excited.  The young Franciscan repeated to us the story that evening round the kitchen fire, where we spent very many happy hours.  He spoke of it sadly.

“The vendetta is a terrible thing,” he said.  “It respects neither the laws of God nor man.”