THE twilight of Cattaro was fast merging into darkness when I returned with my companions to the esplanade, where my horses were ready to take me on to Budua. Our adieux were short but cordial, and in a few minutes I was cantering away in company with Signor Jackschich, who lives in a villa a couple of miles away from Cattaro.

If the tracks and paths of Montenegro are rugged and wild, the beautiful road we were now travelling on made ample amends for the discomfort I had endured in riding during the last few days. As we passed Signor Jackschich's villa, I insisted on his remaining there, or his courtesy would have induced him to keep me company ever so much further on; so wishing him adieu for the twentieth time, I lit my cigar, and sticking spurs into my pony, cantered away on my road to Budua. The ride was not interesting. I started too late; I should have remembered that in those latitudes, except at Cattaro, there is no twilight.

On leaving Cattaro the road is at first directly south, leading across the isthmus of the peninsula which forms the western shore of the gulf of that name. Having reached the sea, it continues to skirt the Adriatic, except in those places where to avoid rounding a headland it runs inland straight across the base of the promontory.

The night was fine, and we got on famously, but whether in consequence of the good dinner, or the genial sensation produced by the atmosphere, or the early hour I had risen in the morning, when it came to be about eleven o'clock an indescribable feeling of lassitude and intense sleepiness came over me. I would have given anything to lie down even for half-an-hour; but it was out of the question, as we were at that time crossing a sort of marsh, and there was not a dry spot to lie down on. So I was compelled to ride on; but I suspect I dozed, and then during those moments of extreme lassitude and prostration, when my vital powers were standing at their lowest, I fear I imbibed some of those zymotic germs, some malarious molecules, which a few days later manifested themselves by a smart attack of fever. Thanks, however, to a good constitution and a few doses of quinine, I was able to cut it short in three days, though it stuck to me for a little while longer in the shape of an indescribable sort of malaise.

At one o'clock a.m., we reached the gates of Budua, where I was met by Baron Heydeg and Signor Marco Medin. Heydeg was an officer quartered with his regiment at Budua, whose acquaintance I had made at Pola, and with whom I had subsequently travelled. Medin was a native of Budua, who had left his country many years before, had made money in California, had married there a buxom Irish girl, a native of Ballinrobe, and had now returned, a rich man, to end his days among his relations in Dalmatia.

They had been waiting for me a long time, and had walked some miles on the road to Cattaro to meet me, but were beginning to think I was not going to keep my word.

We were soon seated together at a comfortable supper, and at half-past two a.m. I was finally allowed to retire to my bed, which Medin had kindly procured for me in a private house—because here, as in Cattaro, there is no hotel of any kind.

Tired and sleepy as I was, I passed but an indifferent night, for, notwithstanding that my room had two large windows overlooking the sea, and that I kept them both open, the heat was perfectly stifling.

I was just thinking of going out the next morning about ten, when in walked the Baron and Signor Medin, and we at once adjourned for breakfast at the same place where we had supped the previous night; I say place, as it was neither an inn nor a cafÉ. How shall I describe it? The following is the way we got at it, anyhow. In the main street of Budua, near to the land gate, on the left hand as you come in, you meet with five rugged stone steps, flanked by a shaky single iron railing. These lead up to a strong wooden door, which at some period, of its existence may have enjoyed the privilege of paint, but of which no trace remains at the present moment, not even enough to enable one to make a guess at the colour it once enjoyed.

Entering by this door, I found myself in a stuffy, dirty hall, "a terreno" pervaded by a multitude of vile smells, one more awful than the other, but all so dovetailed and commingled that it was perfectly impossible to tell what the composition was. Turning sharp to the left, we mounted a steep stone staircase, at the top of which we were greeted by the same odour that had met us on entering, in which now the smell of assafoetida and garlic clearly predominated. We found ourselves in the kitchen of the establishment, over which reigned supreme a good-humoured, fat German Frau of fifty or more, assisted by two bright-eyed, sharp-looking Dalmatian lads, begrimed with dirt and shining with grease and perspiration. The Frau piloted us through this kitchen, where the heat must have been 110°, if not more, and brought us into the dining-room, a pretty good-sized room with windows round the three sides of it, the furniture consisting solely of one long deal table down the middle, and a score of rush-bottomed chairs around it. At this table were seated a dozen or so of German officers demolishing their "early bit."

I was here received by the Frau's worse half, a portly man of sixty or thereabouts. His coat was off, but he had on instead a huge pair of silver spectacles. He at once showed me to my seat at the table, when I apologised, through the Baron, to the officers for disturbing them at their breakfast.

Notwithstanding the unpromising condition of things, the breakfast was excellent; but mine host in the shirt sleeves, with whom I kept up a running conversation in Italian, was even better. An Italian by birth and education (for he was very well educated), he had rambled all over the Austrian dominions and the Turkish provinces in Europe. He had forgotten most of his native tongue without learning any other, and the jargon he spoke was something marvellous. Still, he varied this pot-pourri according to the nationality of those he addressed. The foundation was always Italian, but if he spoke to an Austrian the German element would predominate, while if he spoke to a Montenegrin the Slave would be in the ascendant. He was a most amusing character, and combined in himself the functions of doctor, dentist and apothecary, as well as that of keeper of a restaurant in Budua—hence the villainous combination of the odours of a scullery, a kitchen, and a pharmacy.

In spite of his griminess and the vile odours, I had some very pleasant conversation with him. I found him very well informed, and he gave me a most interesting account of the last descent of the Montenegrins. He had a most unconquerable horror of my favourite mountaineers, and believed there could be no peace nor prosperity in that part of the world until they should be all exterminated.

Having finished our breakfast, Heydeg and I strolled outside the walls to where the market is held under some magnificent old carob trees, and there, as at Cattaro, were numbers of Montenegrins disposing of their produce. Here we had some delicious fresh figs, and then lighting our cigars we went round the old fortifications, which are now only just sufficient for protection at night against any sudden incursion of the wild tribes of the interior. Then we had a good bathe in a most delicious little cove, entirely girt round with rocks, and with a sandy bottom that felt like velvet under our feet. We then again lit another cigar, and started on a tour of exploration through this old town.

Budua, situated at the extreme end of Dalmatia, in what used to be called Northern Albania, is the last Austrian city on the coast of the Adriatic. It is built on a low rocky promontory, and possesses no interest, save in its picturesque appearance, which it derives from its mediÆval walls and machicolated towers—useless, indeed, against a civilized enemy, but still offering some protection against possible irruptions from Albanian freebooters. It is especially picturesque as seen from the sea, with its rugged background of naked mountains. Immediately about it there is some cultivation on the narrow strip of land which lies between the mountains and the sea; and corn, vines, olive trees, and mulberries for the rearing of silk-worms, are diligently grown.

Inside, it is not attractive—its streets are extremely narrow, no more than six feet wide in many instances; they are, however, well paved, and would do well enough, were it not for the utter disregard to cleanliness and drainage. Still there are some wealthy people living there, and many of the houses are very good and substantial. There are several good shops, (perhaps the word stores would best describe them), where a brisk trade seemed to be carried on. The Baron and I poked our way through all the nooks and crannies of the place. We found nothing to invite attention, but a great deal to shock the sight, and even the sense of smell. So we hurried on and went to pay a visit to my buxom Ballinrobe friend, who had not only quite forgotten her ancestral brogue, but had actually exchanged it for a decided American accent, which, to my ears, was not an improvement. She offered us neither English tea nor Irish whiskey punch, but gave us some delicious lemonade and maraschino; and showed by her manner that, if the brogue was gone, the hearty Irish welcome was there still.

From thence I went with the Baron to his own little apartment, which opened on to an enchanting little terrace, covered over with a grand "pergola" of vines, under whose refreshing shade we smoked away the time till we should go to dinner.

We had not been long enjoying an excellent repast at our pharmaceutical (deuced hard name to spell, by-the-by) restaurant when we were informed that the steamer for Corfu was entering the harbour, and would leave in two hours.

The time for parting had come at last, fresh bottles were tapped, and we all drank each others' health, and a happy journey to me amidst noisy demonstrations and much clinking of glasses. Dinner being at last completed, we all arose and walked in a body to the Mole, where, my luggage having preceded me, I went at once on board. There was no time for lengthy adieux, the steamer was whistling, and almost while we were shaking hands she cast off her moorings, and we were off.