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.

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, 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 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 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 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 days, when such happened to be wet ones also.

Having reached my rooms I quickly made my toilet, and then returned to the mulberries, under whose welcome shade I made an excellent breakfast and lunch in one, while many of the natives were taking their dinner.

My further steps became now somewhat uncertain. I thought I should have found the steamer here to take me down the Adriatic, but I had miscalculated; it was not due till the following day. So I determined on resting in Cattaro till evening, and then riding across the isthmus (about eighteen miles only) to Budua, where Baron von Heydeg was quartered, and picking up the steamer when it would call there in a couple of days. I at once telegraphed to Heydeg that I was going, in order that the officer on guard might open the gates for me on arrival, as no one is let in or out of Budua after sunset, without an order from the Commandant. Then I went to my room, and being fairly tired, I threw myself on the bed and slept.

It was about half-past three when I was awoke by some one knocking at my door, and to my surprise, in walked Mr. Yonin, the Russian Consul. I had forgotten to mention that we had agreed to travel from Cettigne together, and were to have met in the street opposite the Palace at three a.m.; but the servants had forgotten to call him, and when after waiting half an hour he did not come, and the guards on duty would not allow my guide to knock at the Palace gate, I started without him, thinking he had changed his mind. He had breakfasted late and then ridden to Cattaro in the middle of the day in order to catch the steamer for Ragusa that was to leave the same evening. I told him how long I had waited, and how I had tried in vain to get the sentinels to allow us to knock. He could only lament his misfortune, as, mopping his face, he added, "I assure you the heat on those bare rocks was something to be remembered all one's life." We then arranged to dine together at five o'clock before parting.

Punctual to the hour appointed, we met on the marina. The heat of the day had considerably diminished, for although the sun was still high in the horizon, it had long ago set for the good folks at Cattaro, as the city being built at the foot of the mountains looking to the West, and having a range of high cliffs in front of it, behind which the sun sinks long before it dips into the Adriatic, sunset at Cattaro occurs hours earlier than at any other place on the Adriatic. In Summer this is a great advantage, as it enables the inhabitants to walk out in the shade on the marina at a much earlier hour, the opposite cliffs protecting them from the hot rays of the sun, and at the same time affording them a sort of twilight, elsewhere unknown in those latitudes; but in Winter it must be very gloomy, as the rising sun being shut out by the rocks and mountains of Montenegro till near eleven o'clock in the morning, and again disappearing so early in the afternoon, reduces the actual day to as short a space as in the latitude of St. Petersburg.

Availing themselves of the comparative coolness of the hour, the beau monde of that primitive little place, among which the Bishop and the Commandant of the garrison were conspicuous, had turned out for their evening promenade, and the esplanade presented quite a gay appearance. I ordered the horses for seven o'clock, and then we went to look for our dinner at the cafÉ; but here something of a difficulty arose. The Bocchesi dine at twelve noon, or at one at latest, and sup at nine, no one ever thinking of a meal at five! so that nothing was ready. The cook, however, was equal to the emergency, and in fifteen minutes served us up a most excellent and varied dinner, to which we were about to sit down and do ample justice, when who should turn up but Pero Pejovich!

He was returning to his post in the Grahovo, and found it easier to get to it by coming round to Cattaro first, then going by sea to Risano and thence, as it were, coming back on his own steps, thus going a round of something like four times the direct distance. This will convey some idea of the difficulties to be encountered in endeavouring to cross some of the rocky regions of Montenegro.

I was delighted at seeing him again; we all dined together, and enjoyed ourselves immensely notwithstanding the heat. After dinner, Pero Pejovich pulled out from among the ample folds of his sash some Trebigne tobacco, which had never seen the countenance of a Custom House officer, and we set to work to make cigarettes, when we were joined by Signor Jackschich and Signor Radanovich, the Prince's Agent at Cattaro. Coffee and maraschino were brought out, fresh relays of cigarettes were manufactured, and we could have enjoyed ourselves for hours more, but the inexorable bell of the steamer rang out a summons that bade Mr. Yonin prepare for departure, while the increasing darkness served to remind myself that I had yet a journey before me ere I should be able to lie down to rest.

We stood up reluctantly, and in a body accompanied the Russian Consul to the steamer, and there bade him adieu, probably for ever; though who can tell? I have had at times the most unexpected rencontres in the most unlikely places. I first met him at Ragusa, where also I made my first acquaintance with Mr. Paton, now unfortunately no more; both very able and highly educated men, yet they seemed not to appreciate each other as they might have done, perhaps from the diametrical opposition of their political views.

Poor Paton is lost to us for ever, and we shall never have a better member of our Consular service; a shrewd, sagacious man, and a first-rate Oriental scholar.

As to Mr. Yonin, I trust I may yet meet him, and renew some of the pleasant hours I spent with him.