I acted on the kind suggestion, and Spira was thankful to accept my offer; as by the time she had driven her mule to our door it rained in torrents. The Montenegrin standard of cleanliness being very low, I gave them an unoccupied room on the ground floor, and carried some food to them there. Spira scarcely tasted it, but crumbled some bread into a cup of milk and water for little Nilo, and coaxed him to swallow a mouthful or two. By degrees her shyness wore off, and I drew her out to talk of Basil and his exploits; how Basil had won a prize at a shooting match given by their Bishop, and how he was esteemed nearly as good a shot as that prince--not quite: nobody could quite come up to his skill, who could hit a lemon thrown up to a great height in the air! This seems a singular accomplishment for a Bishop in the nineteenth century, does it not? Then she related how Basil had last year defended a pass all by himself against five armed Turks; and how, in token of his approval, the Vladika had deigned to baptise their little child, and permitted him to be called Danilo (or Daniel) after himself. So far all was smooth; but when the little woman entered into particulars about the Turkish war, I was astonished to see how ferocious she grew. Her eyes flashed and dilated as she denounced those "unbelieving dogs;" and she talked of cutting off their heads as coolly as our sportsmen do of bringing home the fox's brush! I was shocked, and tried to bring to her mind the heavenly precepts of mercy towards our enemies; but she only looked bewildered, and said in reply, "Excellency, they are Turks." Saddened, and rather repelled, I went back to your uncle; but scarcely five minutes later a ringing cry from Spira's part of the house made us both start. We hastened to the spot, and beheld little Nilo stiff and blue in his father's arms--his frame convulsed, and his throat emitting that kind of barking sound which accompanies violent croup. Basil, as he held him, looked the image of despair. As for Spira she had flung herself in a heap in a corner of the room, crying out, like Hagar, "Let me not see the death of the child!" Neither of them had an idea of trying any remedy, unless laying a leaden image of Saint Basil (the patron of Montenegro) on the baby's breast might be called such. When I stole to Basil's side to look at the poor child, and offer a suggestion of hope, he said briefly, "He is called; he must go, as our three others have gone before him; I know it by that hoarse raven-note." Then breaking down altogether, he cried, "Nilo, Nilo, would I could die for thee, little one! would I could die for thee!" and the strong man sobbed as if his heart would break. Your uncle and I, deeply moved, took counsel together, and determined to try what could be done. I flew to my well-stocked medicine-chest, and weighed out some croup powders; your uncle, kind soul! went off in search of a bath and hot water. When I