"On a diplomatic mission, of course?" he asked, in a hollow whisper.
"On a diplomatic mission."
"To the Vladika, eh?"
Everyone looked significantly at his neighbor, some twisted their long moustaches, others instinctively lifted their hands to the hafts of their knives. They all seemed to say: "It is what we have been suspecting from the very beginning. Montenegro will take back Cattaro and Budua." Thereupon every face brightened.
It was natural to surmise such a thing in those times, inasmuch as in the course of a few years we had been shifting from hand to hand. The French had taken us from the Venetians; then we became Russians; the English drove the Cossacks away, and gave us over to the Austrians, our present masters.
"Of course, nobody goes to Cettinje without doing homage to the
Vladika. Still, our mission is not to the Prince."
We all looked at Bellacic and at Markovic in blank astonishment.
"You might as well tell them," said one of the friends to the other.
"Besides, it is a thing that all the town will know in a few days."
"Well," quoth Markovic, "our mission is not a political one. We are deputed by Radonic——"
"By Radonic?" interrupted the shaver. "But he is not in Budua."