It was now November, and very cold weather, with frequent _Boras_, but we nevertheless managed a quantity of excursions in search for _castellieri_ and inscriptions. One we took in a frightful _Bora_--I don't know how we did it. We had a little country cart about the size of a tea-cart, and two rattling good horses, and we drove for two hours, passing four villages and reaching San Daniell, a fortified village on a hill with an old castle under the big mountains. It was owned by a primitive learned old man of seventy-four, and active as a boy, a queer old housekeeper of a wife, sons who shoot, and daughters, and three old brothers, who played cards with him in the evening. It is a large landed property in the Karso, of no use because it is all stones; the castle is draughty, all the windows and doors are open and half unused; there is no idea of comfort. It has two heavy gateways for entrance, an old wall for defence, and a Roman inscription. We got a shelter with them, lunched in a primitive way in an old chimney in an inn with the villagers; then we got another country cart and had twenty minutes' more drive, and half an hour's rough climbing over stones to get at the object of our search, which was a Troglodyte cave fifty metres deep, the entrance in a side field, and said to have been inhabited by ancients. There we stood for forty minutes in a _Bora_ that made us hold on, taking squeezes of the inscriptions. Once finished, we tumbled back over the stones till we reached our cart, had twenty minutes' drive back, were glad to get near the fire and the chimney, and have some hot coffee. There was a struggling quarter-moon, and we drove back at a rattling pace to Opçina, encountering two snowstorms on our way. When we arrived, after eight hours out, we were frozen and had to be assisted out of the cart; there was a large china stove in the dining-room, and we sat down, one on each side of it, on the floor with our backs to it, and the landlord gave us some hot brandy-and-water with spice in it. We were a great many hours before we got any feeling at all, far less warm. I have known a weak horse and man die on such a night on that road in the _Bora_. We had fearful weather that year, something like the present one (1892-3), but with our _Bora_ added on to it. We dined out one night in Trieste, and forbid our coachman to go on to the Quai, for fear of being blown into the sea; but he disobeyed us, and, to our horror, we saw by degrees our cab got nearer and nearer the edge. When it was about a yard or two from the edge, we opened the door and jumped out on the other side, and the man had to jump down and lead his horse into the back streets.