From this point onwards the road ascends slowly but steadily until a deep valley lies to the right, and the Zeta assumes quite diminutive proportions. The mountains opposite rise to an ever-increasing height, until a few tiny buildings can be made out by the help of field-glasses. It is Ostrog. That morning we could make out the tents and booths of the pilgrims, and a dark mass of surging humanity. But it is still a very long distance away. The road climbs up to the head of the valley to the village of Bogetić, full that morning of the carriages of the wealthy pilgrims. During the Whitsun festival carriages are scarcely to be procured in the whole of Montenegro, or in Cattaro either.
We broke our fast here, and then drove for another mile or so where a path leaves the road, and the pilgrim has either to proceed on horseback or on foot. We had to go on foot, and a very long and tiring walk it proved to be. Besides Dr. S. and his factotum, Lazo, we took another man with us, a wretched puny individual, but seemingly possessed of more endurance than any of us. He led us by a short cut over rocks, and up slippery breakneck walls of cliffs, over which our guide skipped nimbly, and having reached the top seemingly hours before us, sat down and beamed benevolently.
Half-way, the rain came down in sheets, and we took shelter in a wayside inn, or rather hut. It was crowded with returning pilgrims whom the threatening weather had forced to depart earlier than is their wont.
As the weather momentarily cleared, we pushed on, and the remaining distance was one of the most interesting walks it had been our fortune to witness. A ceaseless stream of pilgrims poured down the rocky path. It came on to rain again, but one and all wished us luck in the name of God and S. Vasili. Nearly every costume of the Balkans was represented. The Bosnian, in sack-shaped baggy trousers, fitting the lower leg, either of crimson or blue cloth, a smart-coloured Turkish jacket, a broad shawl round his waist displaying armouries of knives and pistols, on his head a fez wound round with a huge turban cloth, mounted, or leading a pack-horse; his wife in coarse black trousers; the Hercegovinans, with breastplates of silver ornaments, exquisite in workmanship and of great antiquity; sombre Servians, and white-clad Albanians, whose trousers are embroidered with black braid in fantastic tracing; fez, head-cloth, and neat little Montenegrin cap; trousers of red, pink, blue and black; gigantic Albanians in high riding-boots, sitting their horses like Life Guardsmen; Macedonians, Greeks, and even pure-blooded Turks; Montenegrins in creamy white frock-coats worn over gold-braided crimson jackets; and dark-blue costumes with red worsted tassels of the poor Dalmatian peasants—all passed us in bewildering confusion.
The women (who were for the most part Montenegrin) showed up well in comparison with their sisters from Sarajevo, whose attire is, to say the least, comical. For in the larger towns of the Austrian occupation territory they are undergoing the stage from East to West, and appear in huge Turkish trousers and cheap, gaudy European blouses. The contrast between the Sarajevan and the graceful Montenegrin is positively ludicrous. But of all the costumes, male and female, the palm must be given to the Montenegrin. They carry themselves with a princely air, and their picturesque costume is a model of good taste; for Montenegro is, as Mr. Gladstone has remarked, the beach on which was thrown up the remnants of Balkan freedom. After the battle of Kossovo, all the Serb nobility who would not submit to the Turk fled to Crnagora, and the traces of heredity are easily to be recognised in their superb carriage.
MONTENEGRIN WOMEN
It was well after midday when we reached theplateau on which the lower and modern monastery is situated. We entered through a gate into a wide path bordered with booths in which crowds of joyful pilgrims sat refreshing themselves. In spite of the departing crowds that we had passed, the place was still densely packed, for over twenty thousand people visit Ostrog. We squeezed into one of the booths and sat watching the surging mass pass to and fro.
The mixture of costume was even more marked than on the path below. It was a brilliant kaleidoscope of colour. Nothing but colour—colour. Very rarely could a man in European clothes (the richer Dalmatians) be noticed, and he seemed strangely out of place and harmony.