The Black Earth is an absolutely flat and treeless plain, covered at times with grass, which mischievous Albanians love to set fire to in the hopes of some sport with peasants, who might attempt to extinguish the conflagration. The River Zem divides it and constitutes the boundary, but the land on both sides is neutral by mutual consent. It is courting death to walk upon it. Block-houses dot it at frequent intervals, containing small garrisons of Montenegrin and Turkish soldiers.
As we drove past the first Montenegrin block-house, we were reminded of a ride which we once took to it, while our knowledge of the border dangers was nil. On that occasion we had cantered, innocently, straight towards it, and were amused to see its little garrison promptly turn out. A man came running towards us motioning us to halt. This unmistakable request we suddenly obeyed, for the men behind had covered us with their rifles.
Explanations followed, and the rest of the men came up smiling; but they sent us back towards Podgorica at once, which was only half an hour's ride away—saying that a bullet from the overlooking hill would be no unusual thing.
To-day we left this block-house on our left, and, striking the Zem, we drove along it till we reached a solitary house. A few hundred yards further down was a Turkish fort, with the banner of the Star and Crescent hanging lazily at the mast.
This house was the home of our friend, quite a young man of sixteen, but married and a proud father. He could well have been mistaken for twenty-five.
He was working in his field as we drew near, and hurried to meet us. First of all we went to the Zem, which fifty yards away would be unnoticed, as it lies between two deep banks, which break off suddenly and without any indication. This historical little river looked very peaceful as it flowed through deep basins, hollowed out of the rocky bed, and splashed over great boulders. How often has it been crossed by bands of men intent on bloodshed and murder, who often recrossed, flying and hunted fugitives! What quantities of blood have dyed those clear and crystal pools! What awful doings of death have they reflected!
The Turkish soldiers opposite turned out, and viewed our movements inquisitively. Our Albanian friend hinted that a too lengthy inspection might be misunderstood, so we withdrew.
The house was a curiosity. One-storied, and solidly built of stone; it had no windows, but suggestive loopholes. The ground floor was empty. We looked inside for the staircase, but in vain, and this was scarcely odd, because there was none. The family lives above, and the only means of entry to their dwelling is by a ladder. This is drawn up after the last man, for the night.
As we clambered up the ladder and crawled through the narrow doorway, the young mother (of fifteen) kissed our hands.
An aged lady, evidently the great-grandmother of one of the young couple—at least, to judge by her decrepit appearance, she might well have been that (in reality she was the boy's mother)—sat spinning in a corner. A weeping and noisy infant lay strapped immovably in a wooden cradle with no rockers, which a young maiden attempted to soothe by covering it with a thick cloth and rocking it vigorously.