He is entirely unchanged ever since the Turk found him, except that of late he has adopted the breech-loading rifle and a particularly heavy pattern of revolver. The black furry bolero which he wears, without exception, is the sign of mourning for his great prince, Skender Beg, who died in 1467, after being at war with the Turks for over twenty years; therefore with him fashions do not easily change, and “latest novelties” in dress are unknown. Great are the changes that have come over the world during the past thousand years or so, but Northern Albania has remained unaffected by them, and is still in a measure in the lowest depths of barbarism. The Turk does not rule. The wild, inaccessible country is under the various independent tribes, ruled by a chieftain according to unwritten laws which have been handed down orally from remote ages, and one of the fiercest and most independent of these chiefs was Vatt Marashi, the man whose guest I now was to be. [Illustration: My road in Northern Albania.] [Illustration: The way to the Skreli.] Compared with the tribesmen, the Albanian Christian of Skodra is a puny person. The mountaineers are a barbaric, lawless people, without any education save the schools established by Italian and Austrian monks as part of the political propaganda; for, truth to tell, both countries have recently conceived the idea of turning Northern Albania to account for their own purposes on the day of the downfall of the Turk. Therefore both Powers are frantically exerting every effort to curry favour with the people, a fact which is glaringly apparent even to the rough, uneducated tribesmen themselves. The Northern Albanian may be entirely uneducated and a barbarian, but he is at heart a brigand, and is certainly no fool. My friend Rok was particularly intelligent, and as we toiled along over those rough, rock-strewn paths he gave me much information about his country, and declared that both Austria and Italy were equally their enemy. After sundown we rested at a point high up above a dark gloomy defile, where a stream wound away towards the plain, and there ate some slices of cold mutton and black bread with a glass of _rakhi_, our three rifles lying at hand in case of sudden emergency. I had noticed the queer, sinuous, almost uncanny way in which Rok walked. His movements, at even pace whatever might be the state of the path, were stealthy. Indeed, he almost crept along, for his feet fell in silence, and with his rifle ever ready, his keen black eyes were searching on every side for the enemy which he appeared to expect to meet at every turn. Sometimes as he walked in front he would halt, and closely scan a mass of tumbled rocks, as though he had suspicion of a lurking enemy, then thoroughly satisfying himself, he would go forward again without glancing back. He was certain that no enemy was in his rear.