Our host would not rest till he had shown me the famous view, and Dr. S. accompanied us. As one stands outside the church, a magnificent panorama is spread out, seemingly without a break. But should one wish to ascend the mountains opposite so temptingly near, a great ravine must be first descended. Ten minutes' walk brings one to the edge of a precipice 2,400 feet deep, so appalling and so sudden that one's breath is momentarily taken away. It is a spot to sit and meditate on the grandeur of the work of the Master of all architects. The majesty of that mighty ravine is, indeed, awe-inspiring.
At the bottom, a mere tiny thread, flows the Zem, a river which has often run blood, and whose source is hardly known as it rises in the unknown Procletia, "the Accursed Mountains" of history. A wall of mountains rises beyond. Steep and precipitous as is the descent on the Zatrijebać side, still a path trodden daily by mountaineers winds and zigzags down to the bottom. Then as we seated ourselves on a carefully selected and safe ledge and gazed on this unique picture, the monk told us of a bloody battle fought not so very many years ago by the men of Zatrijebać and the clan of Hotti who inhabit the opposite mountains. It was a quaint illustration how questions of boundary lines are settled without the aid of expensive Courts of Arbitration.
When the new frontier was laid down at the conclusion of the late war, the River Zem was Montenegro's limit. On the hill beyond lies a grazing-ground which has been used as a summer pasturage by the Zatrijebać from times immemorial. Though technically now belonging to Albania, and in particular to the clan of Hotti, the Zatrijebać still continued to drive their flocks across the ravine. The Hotti remonstrated, and finding this of no avail, took possession of the plateau. Their opponents coming over found the rival clan posted in a seemingly impregnable position on every point of vantage on that steep ascent. Though armed with inferior rifles (in those days), they attacked at once, and by reckless bravery came to hand-to-hand conflict. Then a terrible encounter ensued, men seized each other and threw themselves over the cliffs, and to complete the utter discomfiture of the Hotti, the Kuć came to the assistance of their neighbours and the Hotti were nearly annihilated. Since then no questions have been asked, and annually the cattle and sheep of Zatrijebać graze in peace in Albania.
It was a very similar dispute which has happened so very recently at Mokra near Andrijevica.[7]
Supper gave us a much needed change of diet. Boiled fowl and vegetables came as a luxury after days of tough and stringy lamb. We sat at a table again too, on chairs, and felt quite ashamed of our recently acquired habits.
The evenings round the kitchen fire were just as delightful as our hut experiences, and if possible, more novel. Here we had fierce Albanians, with their half-shaven heads and scalping lock, and a scholar, a student of philosophy, a man of wonderful ideals, in the form of the young Franciscan, instead of unkempt shepherds.
[7] Since writing the above another tribal disturbance has taken place between the Zatrijebać and the Hotti. This time it was the Hotti who drove their flocks, also from time immemorial, to a certain spot in Zatrijebać, and as the latter tribe have since cultivated the intervening ground, they felt justly irritated. As the only real argument is the rifle, they met and argued the point in this fashion in February, 1902, and many fell on both sides. A notable incident which is worth recording is, that a man of Hotti fought on the side of the Zatrijebać against his brethren and was killed. His body was afterwards handed back and his clan demanded to know if he had fought as a man. "In the front rank," was the answer. Then they took the body and gave it an honourable burial and agreed to let the dispute drop. In this action our friend the monk had his habit riddled with bullets whilst attending the wounded.
Round the fire another evening an argument as to the wrongs of Fatalism, i.e. God's Will, led to a characteristic story by the monk in defence of his views. Dr. S., like many men who lead such lives as he does, was a rigid fatalist.
An Albanian found his enemy in vendetta, working in a field. Hiding himself, he prayed to God and S. Nicholas to direct the bullet.
"Lord," he prayed, "should I hit this man in the breast, then I shall know that I do this deed by Thy Will."