By
this time we had each imbibed a dozen Turkish coffees during the day,
but we slept for all that from nine until nine in the morning.
Marko Petrovitch, whom we saw early, was the best and last Petrovitch we
met in Montenegro. Like all the Petrovitches he wore national costume.
He was handsome, shy, and kindly, said we must go to Dechani the most
famous of Balkan monasteries, and promised us a cart for the journey.
After leaving the governor we plunged into melodrama.
Hearing a noise we discovered crowds of weeping women and children round
the steps of a shop. A young man in French fireman's uniform seemed to
be very active, and an old trousered woman passively rolled down the
steps after receiving a box on the ears.
We thought it was a policeman arresting an elderly thief; but Jo, seeing
blood on the lady's face, told him he was a "bad man." He lurched,
staring at her stupidly. His companions, more firemen, came forward
grinning sheepishly, and we recommended them to lead him away out of
mischief.
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