It was not a far walk from the station to the Consulate, which we recognised from a distance by the tremendous tricolour that floated from the balcony, drooping to within six feet of the road beneath. The Consulate was situated between the barracks and a camp of Turkish soldiers, and on several sides, immediately about the house, were small detachments of picked troops. First to greet us as we entered the door was the Cossack, in bushy busby, blue dress with large white spots, brown sleeves, leggings, and many weapons. He was a moth-like creature, hair, beard, and skin the same sickly pallor, and eyes of a dull blue. The kavasses--generally swaggering--looked sheepish; they were Albanians--traitors, in their countrymen’s eyes. But the Consul, M. Mashkov, late of Uskub, was full of fire, actually pugnacious, and, so he told us, ready to die in his country’s service. A telegram arrived a few minutes after we did, containing a warning that the Sublime Porte had received a letter from the Bulgarian committajis, informing the Turkish Government of their intention to assassinate another Russian consul. The object of this telegram--the origin of which is obvious--I am at a loss to understand, but such warnings to consuls come constantly from the Turkish Government. ‘They have killed M. Stcherbina,’ said M. Mashkov; ‘they may kill me; but they cannot kill the Russian Consul!’ The Dane asked the Consul if he really thought he would be assassinated, and M. Mashkov replied, ‘I expect to leave Turkey as M. Stcherbina did. If the Albanians do not kill me, the Bulgarians will.’ But I am glad to record that our entertaining and generous host--whose ideas and sympathies, I regret, do not agree with mine--was soon transferred to Egypt, and got away from Turkey alive. We tramped over the battlefield in the same manner that the dead Russian had done, with Russian kavasses and Turkish soldiers for our protection, and a Turkish officer who spoke French as a conductor. We resembled a Russian commission, and the sentinels rose from the ground and saluted. Every time we passed one the sins of my life all came back to my mind. * * * * * Albania is the most romantic country in Europe, probably in all the world. It is a lawless land where might makes right, and parts of it are as forbidding to the foreigner as darkest Africa. In the country around Ipek, Jakova, and Prisrend, and even Kalkandele, the homes of men are strongholds built of stone, with no windows on the ground floors, and those above mere loopholes. At the corners of a village or estate are _kulers_, towers of defence, from which the enemy can be seen far down the road. The first law of the land is the law of the gun, as it was in the Wild West. But the country is more thickly populated than was the American border in the old days, and men have banded together in clans for offensive and defensive purposes.