"Well, do you understand, the inn is very full to-night, so we thought it best that you should both take the one bed and I and my daughter will take the other."
"Oh," said we, "in that case we had better move altogether, we have anoth—"
"Indeed, no no," said the old lady, horrified. "Stay, stay. There sit down. It is good, keep your beds." She patted us and left us.
We had an uninspired dinner. Greasy soup, tough boiled meat which had produced the soup, minced boiled meat in pepper pods, and two pears which turned out to be bad. The company, composed of officers and nondescripts, pleased us no better than the dinner, so we decided to eat elsewhere on the morrow.
The governor's secretary came in to arrange for an interview with his chief—yet another Petrovitch and brother to the governor of Scutari. By this time we had each imbibed a dozen Turkish coffees during the day, but we slept for all that from nine until nine in the morning.
Marko Petrovitch, whom we saw early, was the best and last Petrovitch we met in Montenegro. Like all the Petrovitches he wore national costume. He was handsome, shy, and kindly, said we must go to Dechani the most famous of Balkan monasteries, and promised us a cart for the journey.
After leaving the governor we plunged into melodrama.
Hearing a noise we discovered crowds of weeping women and children round the steps of a shop. A young man in French fireman's uniform seemed to be very active, and an old trousered woman passively rolled down the steps after receiving a box on the ears.
We thought it was a policeman arresting an elderly thief; but Jo, seeing blood on the lady's face, told him he was a "bad man." He lurched, staring at her stupidly. His companions, more firemen, came forward grinning sheepishly, and we recommended them to lead him away out of mischief. But the next minute a balloon-trousered child rushed up to us and tugged at Jan's coat.