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?” “Yes, Monseigneur,” I responded. “Did you get my message last night?” he inquired, referring to a confidential matter. “Thank you, Monseigneur, yes.” “Very well. Only be careful of yourself, you know, and when you get back, come and tell me all about it.” And, laughing, His Royal Highness waved his hand with a merry “Bon voyage!” and cantered away, while my half a dozen fellow-travellers in gold-braided costumes regarded me in wonder that their Prince should stop and converse with me—a perfect stranger. Down the silent river, between steep green hills we glided. Choked by the tangle and rot of weeds, it was the haunt of thousands of waterfowl, and, as we passed, the herons rose with a lazy flapping of wings,—a stream that might well be haunted by the fairies, for the water was unruffled and the silence deep and complete. Boarding the little steamer, the _Nettuno_, lying at the mouth of the river, we were soon out in the great green lake, with the high mountains looming grey in the far distance. As we steamed due south, the barren mountains of Montenegro were soon left behind. At Virpasar and Plavnitza we picked up passengers, a fat Turkish peasant woman carrying two baskets of fowls, and three young Montenegrins, fully armed with rifles and revolvers. Because she was not yet in Turkey, the woman wore no veil; yet in the evening, as soon as Skodra came in sight, she produced her veil, and carefully adjusted it, laughing with me the whole time, and wound it until only her bright dark eyes were visible.