Kećo was not in his house when we arrived, and we had our ceremonial and inevitable black coffee brought to us on a small natural platform of rock overlooking the magnificent valley.
Shortly afterwards a small and insignificant man approached us, with haggard looks and grey hair. He greeted the doctor effusively.
"This is Kećo," said Dr. S.
As he took the tobacco tin which was proffered him his hands trembled so excessively that the rolling of a cigarette was a work of art.
"His nerves are gone," explained the doctor. "He lives in hourly danger of his life."
Kećo soon left us to prepare our meal and quarters for the night, and it was not till after supper, when we were seated round the fire in his little house and smoking, that he would consent to tell his story. Even then he spoke at first reluctantly, but soon warmed to his subject. His wife was always present and looked anxious. Several men were in the room.
"Though my hands tremble and my hair is growing white," he began, "yet I do not fear death. We must all die, and I know that my fate must speedily overtake me. This house I have built for my wife, and stocked with what money I had, to provide for her. They shall not kill me easily. Twice have they tried. The first time I was in the fields when men fired at me from a long distance. I took my rifle and made a détour, and, as my enemies recrossed the border, I was there waiting for them. But I did not hit one. Another time seven men hid themselves only thirty yards away from my house, in the evening, but they dared not shoot then, for my wife was by my side."
"You know," explained the doctor, "the life of a woman is sacred; should a woman by the greatest accident shoot a man, the vendetta falls on her husband—she may not be touched; or, should a woman be killed in a vendetta, even by the merest accident, the shame would be unspeakable. The murderers and their families, or even their clan, would be blotted out, for in such revenge all would join. Kećo's wife never leaves his side after dusk, and, you see, she has saved his life once already within his knowledge; who knows how often unawares?"
"Tell us the origin of thy blood-guiltiness," said we. Dr. S. had told us the story, but we wished to hear it from his lips.
"I had a cow which was my pride," went on Kećo. "She yielded more milk than any other cow and of a far better quality. Men praised the milk and the cheese when I took it to the market in Podgorica for sale, and none more than Achmet, a Turk from Dinoš.