Ryeka, Montenegro.125
Zabliak, Montenegro.
Palok, whom I had engaged as my guide, had, he said, been born in Skodra, or, as we call it, Scutari, which causes it to be confounded with the city on the Bosphorus. He also declared that he was well known there, and the fact that he also spoke Italian caused me to accept his services.
When I asked Fevzi Pasha, the Turkish Minister in Cettinje, for a passport for Skodra, or “Scutari d’Albanie,” as it appears on the visa, he granted it, but not without words of caution. “In Scutari you will have nothing to fear,” he said. “I will give you a note to the Governor of the town. But do not go into the country. If you do, you’ll be shot like a dog.”
I thanked him, but had no intention of taking his well-meant advice.
At half-past three one dark morning I took Palok, and we drove out on the road that wound high up across the great lonely mountains to the little town of Ryeka, whence a small steamer plies down the Lake of Scutari to Skodra. The drive was cold and weary, through a barren waste of rocks, but the bright autumn sun was up ere we reached Ryeka, and just as I boarded the big canoe with long, upturned, pointed prow, which takes passengers and baggage down the sluggish stream to the boat at the entrance to the lake, I saw, on the road above, a fine military figure in pale blue, riding a splendid white charger and followed by an officer.
In a moment every head was bared. It was Prince Nicholas, who was staying at his palace at Ryeka, taking his morning ride.
He espied me, pulled up, and shouted down in Italian—
“Hulloa! Good-morning! Then you are off to Albania after all, eh?”