DEPARTURE FROM CETTIGNE—RUGGED ROAD—DELIGHTFUL VIEW—USEFUL OLD HELMET—NIEGOSH—EXCESSIVE HEAT—THE SCALA DI CATTARO—THE BOCCHESI—THE RUSSIAN CONSUL—SUNSET AT CATTARO—UNEXPECTED APPEARANCE OF PERO PEJOVICH.

AS the clock struck three in the morning of the 15th of July, 1873, the guide walked into my room to say it was time to start; at the same moment my servant brought me in a cup of café-au-lait with some hot toast. My toilette was soon made, and my breakfast swallowed, and I moved away from Cettigne as the clock chimed the half-hour after three. 269

It was still night, but not dark, as the moon had not yet set, and a band of rose-coloured light streaked the Eastern horizon. We started at a rapid trot, startling the echoes up the solitary and deserted street of Cettigne, and we never slackened our pace till we came to the verge of the little plain in which it is situated, when the path up the ravine which led westward to the Adriatic became so rugged that we were compelled to walk our horses, and in less than half-an-hour more had to dismount and proceed on foot.

In a short time we reached the crest of the range which encircles the Plains of Cettigne, and the track becoming less precipitous, we remounted; but before leaving the spot I turned my horse round to have a last look at that mountain capital where I had been so hospitably entertained, and where, most probably, I might never have the pleasure of being again.

I was now standing on the highest point of the pass, and I enjoyed a most delightful view. The sun was just in the act of rising. My back was to the Adriatic, while my face was turned to the East. At my feet lay the Plain of Cettigne, 270 girt round on all sides with precipitous rocks and mountains. Beyond the plain, far in the hazy horizon—not foggy—but rendered slightly indistinct by a faint cobalt haze, I could see the Lake of Skodra glittering in the morning sun with the thin silver streak of the Zeta river losing itself in it, while in the still further distance I could perceive the faintest outline of the Albanian mountains. Right and left, as far as the eye could reach, nothing but rocky peaks and precipices met the view—nothing but rocks with here and there a few scanty bushes, on which were browsing large herds of goats tended by wild-looking men, carrying round their waist, as usual, the inevitable arsenal of weapons, and the long Albanian gun over their shoulders.

I would have lingered over this scene, and I was already thinking of getting down and sketching it, when the guide remonstrated against any such proceeding on my part. "It was very near the dog days," he said, "and to be caught by the noon-day sun on those bare rocks, was a thing to be avoided;" so I was compelled to move on, after giving 271 another long look at the picture to which I was about to turn my back.

The guide was right; the track was abominable, and we could only proceed at a slow pace. At the same time, the sun was gaining strength with every inch it rose above the horizon, and by the time we reached the clachan of Niegosh, its rays come down upon us like molten lead; but my old helmet was proof against them, and an excellent protection, while the faint breeze which came up from the Adriatic prevented all feeling of oppression.

At Niegosh, where a week before I had been so kindly entertained by young Pejovich, we rested five minutes. I did not even dismount, but the guide went into the very primitive khan to light his pipe; but, by the way he smacked his lips on coming out, I suspect a glass of wodky was not forgotten, while the fire for his pipe was being handed to him.

After a little, the path again became impracticable for riding, so I had to dismount and walk, though the heat was something marvellous (I afterwards heard from Signor Jackschich that 272 in Cattaro, in the shade, the thermometer stood at 33° Reaumur at four o'clock in the afternoon—about 105° Fahrenheit.) After some difficult scrambling, when I sorely felt the want of the stout arm of Pero Pejovich, we reached the fountain, and here we rested ten minutes; then having remounted, we soon arrived at the top of the scala, with the Adriatic before us and Cattaro hundreds of feet down below.

It seemed now as if I should be at the end of my journey in a few minutes; the road was all before me, and I could count the zig-zags as they unfolded themselves on the face of the rock, still they seemed as if they would never come to an end. I counted one, two, three, twenty, thirty, fifty, up to one hundred bends, and still more appeared beneath me, so at last I gave it up through sheer exhaustion.

Everything, however, has an end eventually, and so the apparently interminable Scala di Cattaro came to an end also. How I got on during the last few turns and twists I forget—I was in a sort of doze; all I remember is finding myself suddenly among those heavenly 273 mulberry trees of the Esplanade, and hearing the friendly sound of Signor Jackschich's welcome.

Cattaro is innocent of either inn, hotel, khan, or caravansary, but good accommodation had been prepared for me inside the town. I therefore rode on to the gate where I had to dismount, as no horse is allowed to enter, just as no carriage can enter the narrow gateway.

The Bocchesi (as the natives call themselves) have one cause of heart-burning and envy, less than we in our country; there are no carriage-people in Cattaro to look down upon you who have to trudge on foot, and the nearest approach to anything of the sort is an antique sedan-chair mounted on wheels exactly like the celebrated old push at Hampton Court, which was occasionally brought into requisition on gala............