AT the earliest peep of day on the morning of the 9th of July, I arose from the deck of the steamer on which I had slept for so many pleasant nights, notwithstanding its hardness. Thanks to the kind attention of Giovanni, the steward, a cup of hot and tolerably good coffee was not wanting to fortify me against the effects of the morning air. He wanted me to add a small glass of maraschino unsweetened "per scacciar l'aria cattiva," as he said in his Venetian dialect, but not being addicted to pegs, I contented myself with the coffee and a few biscuits.
The faintest tinge of rose showing in the East over the rocks which hang over Cattaro, seeming ever to threaten it with instant ruin, barely enabled me at first to distinguish objects on the mole alongside of which our steamer was moored; but as the light increased I could make out, under the shadow of the trees which form the boulevard and public promenade of the Bocchesi, the stalwart figures of a dozen Montenegrins who had come down from Cettigne to accompany the Russian Consul on his way to the festival of St. Peter, and the court of the illustrious Prince who now so wisely rules those splendid mountain tribes.
Modestly drawn up on one side of them I could see my own portion of the caravan, consisting of only two horses, one to carry myself, the other to carry my luggage, all under the direction of the excellent guide provided for me the day before by the kindness of Signor Jackschich.
Everything was now ready and myself in the saddle, when the Russian Consul made his appearance, and we finally started just as the dawn was quickening into day.
Skirting by the bastions which defend Cattaro on the sea side, we crossed the bridge that spans the little mountain torrent which here empties itself into the sea, and turning sharply to the right we passed through the open market-place where the Montenegrins come down to sell their farm-produce to the Bocchesi; but who, owing to the somewhat evil name they have unfairly acquired, are never allowed to penetrate into the city unless they first deliver up their arms at the military post outside, just as we do at Aden with the Arabs of the surrounding districts.
Having crossed the market-place, we reached in a few minutes the base of the rocks, and at once commenced ascending that wonderful road zig-zagged across the face of the mountain, and known by the name of "Le scale di Cattaro." Here we joined an additional party, also journeying to Cettigne for the festival of St. Peter, and among them was conspicuous the handsome Montenegrin Chieftain, Pero Pejovich, commandant of the Grahovo, whose pleasant acquaintance we had made the evening before under the mulberry trees of Cattaro.
There was also in the same group a monk, a most picturesque looking individual, but certainly most unclerical-looking. He was dressed in a costume very much resembling the Montenegrin fashion, only of sombre colours, and had his jerkin trimmed with furs instead of embroideries. He wore on his head a sort of black fez, from under which his sable curls fell hanging on his neck, while his full beard, innocent of trimming, flowed amply on his chest. His face was handsome and swarthy, and had a not unkind expression. In figure he was slight, and of medium height. He came from a monastery in the Herzegovina, a province of Turkey in Europe lying co-terminous to Montenegro on its Northern border, and which, strange enough, comes down at one point to the very sea at the opening of the Fjord of Cattaro, thus thrusting itself into and dividing the Austrian sea-board of Dalmatia into two.
What was he coming to Montenegro for? Simply to be inducted abbot of his own monastery, which ceremony by right should have been performed by the Greek Patriarch at Constantinople; but although Herzegovina is subject to the Sultan, yet all the Christian mountaineers of that region, though not Montenegrins by blood, are Montenegrins at heart, and all look to the Metropolitan at Cettigne as their spiritual head, while to the Prince they look up as the only sovereign to whom they owe absolute allegiance.
The abbot elect rode a beautiful, small grey entero, wonderfully quick and sure-footed, caparisoned with gorgeous trappings, consisting of a large blue saddle-cloth embroidered with gold, over which lay an immense saddle of crimson velvet studded with large gilt-headed nails. The bridle was of the same Oriental style, while the bit was something to be looked at, both as regards size, ornament and power.