The news got better. The Austrians were now driven out of Belgrade with immense slaughter, the whole line of the Danube and of the Save had been reoccupied by the Serbs. Blease and Jan wondered if it were necessary to go on with the rope handles. Our first wounded man arrived in the evening, a non-commissioned officer, with a slightly wounded thumb. He had arrived by train, asked in the town which was the most comfortable hospital, and had walked up. We represented that we weren't looking for thumbs, but had to put him up for the night; this meant the whole business of washing, shaving, and disinfecting his clothes.

We heard that the French and English had arrived in Nish, 70,000 men, and that they had been greeted with the wildest enthusiasm; but against that was set the fact that Belgrade after all was not quite clear of Austrians, in fact, they still held half the town, but that the "Swobs" were not getting on at Chabatz. "Swobs" in Serbian are any of a Germanic country, while in Austria it is a term of opprobrium, meaning "German." One of our "Czech" orderlies said to Jo, pathetically—

"I never thought that I should be called a 'Swob.'"

Next day came a warning that two hundred wounded, serious cases, were to be expected, so everything and everybody was in a rush. The bathrooms to be cleaned, disinfecting-room and bags to be got ready, wards cleared as much as was possible.

The wounded did not come, and the next day they did not come. The chemist said that all the Austrians had been driven back, but that the Bulgars had at last attacked. Mr. Berry thought the news rather serious, and told us that Gaschitch had said that we must be prepared to move at twenty-four hours' notice; so back we went to the work on the boxes. Next day news was brought that the Bulgars had drawn back, and had said that the Serbs had attacked them first, that the Powers had declared war on Bulgaria, and that the Russians had bombarded Varna.

At last we got news that the wounded were really coming. We hurried into our disinfecting garments—looking like pantaloons,—and scissors were served out to all the assistants. It was dark before the first motor load came.

The undressing-room was a large white-stone floored room with four long plank beds covered with mackintosh; behind was the bathroom. The first wounded man was pushed in through the window on a stretcher, a brown crumpled heap of misery, and groaning. We laid him carefully on the bed while the doctor searched for the wound. While she was examining him a second was handed in. No need to examine this one. Bloody head bandage and great blue swollen eyelids told plainly where his wound was. We stripped the clothes as carefully as was possible from the poor fellows. Those who were too bad to go to the bathroom were washed where they lay. One orderly with soap and razors shaved every hair from each; and several plied clippers on the matted heads. Outside was one electric lamp which threw strong lights and darker shadows, making a veritable Rembrandt of the scene, lighting up the white clad forms of the assistants who were drawing out the stretchers, the big square end of the ambulance car, and picking out from the gloom of the garden a rose tree which bore one white rose.

The wounded were indescribably dirty, and their clothes in a shocking state, all stiff with blood. Jo took charge of the clothes bags, seeing that no man's clothes were mixed with any others. The men all seemed dazed, each soldier seemed to have the same protest upon his mind. "This wasn't the idea at all, I was not to be wounded. Why am I here?" One suddenly felt the brutal inanity of modern warfare; one felt that if the ones who had started this war could only be forced to spend three months in a war hospital, receiving and undressing the fruits of their plots, they would have a different view of the glory and honour of battle.

Each man had sewn in his belt some talisman to protect him from danger—small brass or lead image or medal, bought from the village priest.

There was confusion at first, for almost all were new to their tasks; the barbers were carrying stretchers when they ought to have been barbering; the clippers were scrubbing instead of doing their proper work; but, nevertheless, it was marvellously rapid. The motor tore back to the station, and by the time it had returned its first load had been washed, shaved, arrayed in clean pyjamas, and either lay in bed in the ward, or were waiting their turn outside the operating theatre.

Mr. Berry was hard at work: there were several cases shot through the brain, one through the lungs, one through the heart, and one through the spine; this latter was paralysed.

Some wounded came in carriages; it was very difficult to get them on to the stretchers without giving them unnecessary pain, because of the shape of the "fiacres." At last all were passed through.

Do not think us heartless if we rubbed our hands and said, "Some very good cases, what!" for emotional pity can be separated from professional pleasure, and if these things had to be we were pleased that the serious ones had come to us; had not gone to a Serbian hospital.

Next day we sorted clothes. Every uniform had to be taken from its bag, tabulated, searched for money or food, and repacked. They were swarming with vermin, but we wore mackintosh overalls which are supposed to be anathema to the beasties. More operations. One of the men had been hit in the cerebellum, and was quite blind. The boy who had been hit in the lungs prayed for a cigarette and an apple, he felt sure they would do him good. We sorted more clothes. One of the men had a pocket full of scissors—evidently regimental barber; another's pockets were crammed with onions; a third had a half-eaten apple, as though the fight had surprised him in the middle of his dessert. The cerebellum man wanted his purse. We could not find it; after exhaustive inquiry found that the lung youth had stolen it. Another patient claimed he had lost thirty-six francs; so down we had to go once more, search his package—the smelliest of the lot—and at last found the money pinned into the lining of his coat, also a watch. Jan took them back to him, wound up the watch and set it. The grateful owner said that the watch was an ornament, but that he could not read it.

The French were never in Nish at all—all lies; but Austrian aeroplanes had bombed it and killed several people. The Bulgarian comitaj cut the line at Vranja, but had been badly beaten in a battle near Zaichar. The flight over Gotch degenerated into a joke, and Jo was commissioned to do a caricature of it.

Suddenly a refugee turned up, the hostess of the rest house in Nish. She was very worried about the loss of her fifteen trunks, which she had had to leave, and which contained all her family mementoes and miniatures. She hoped that the scare would only last a few days. The Bulgars had occupied Veles though, which was bad news. Another refugee lady from Belgrade came in. More patients. Forty-nine for the "Merkur" hospital. Lots of running about, but at last all were bedded.

A Serbian comitaj girl came in in the afternoon, looking for a lady doctor. She was a fine upstanding creature with a strong, almost fierce, face. There had been six of her, she said, but one had been killed. The bombardment of Varna turned out to be a lie, but they said that all the Bulgars at Vrnja had been surrounded. Major Gaschitch also said that if Serbia could hold out till the 10th, something wonderful was going to happen.

Our visitors had rather a hard time. One of them was trotting into the little sitting-room of the hospital. She opened the door and started back aghast. There was a man within clad in nothing but a large pair of moustaches. She fled. Mr. Berry having nowhere to examine a stray patient had occupied the room at an unlucky moment. More wounded were expected, so we got into our war paint, and they arrived five hours later than we had expected them. They came in "fiacres," and climbed off very easily. We inquired, "Where wounded?" "Belgrade." "When?" "Three months ago." Not a serious case amongst them, and we had heard that the badly equipped hospitals at Krusevatz were crowded with the most frightful cases. We were furious. A lot more wounded came to the "State" cafe. None seriously hurt, and after examination one man had no wound to show at all, nor shock, nor anything. He had simply run away. There were several hand cases, some blackened with powder, proving that the poor devils had shot themselves to get out of it. One man would not have his hair cut because he said that he was in mourning for his brother, and his hat was decorated with a crown of black lace. At the same time some serious cases came to the main hospital; one man seemed to have been shot the whole length of his body, the bullet entering at the shoulder and emerging behind the hip. A small boy sat scratching. Jo said to him, "Why dost thou scratch?" He answered with a shout of fatuous content, "I have lice, I have lice," and scratched once more.

The disinfector was working overtime, clothes were poured upon us from all the other hospitals. Another alarm that wounded were coming, but they never came. In their place an English clergyman arrived from Krag. News came of the fall of Uskub, and that Lady Paget had been captured with all her staff. Next day the wounded came, many more than had been expected. Jan got rather strong signs of inflammatory rheumatism threatening, so he went to bed for a couple of days with salicylate.

The Serbian authorities were beginning to lose their heads. In the morning they said that the "State" was to be made into a hospital for officers, and chased all the patients out; in the afternoon they decided that it was not, and chased back the patients—who had been divided amongst the other hospitals. Thus they kept us busy and accomplished nothing. In the evening another batch of wounded came in.

Nearly all the reports of the previous week were now confessed to be lies. A Serbian minister had been dying in the town, and the good stories were made up to keep him cheerful. Now he was dead the truth leaked out. The Austrians and Germans were advancing on every side, the Serbs making no resistance since Belgrade. The Bulgars had occupied the whole of the line south of Nish. The French and English were advancing with extreme difficulty. The Farmers' unit trailed into the town, no conveyance having been arranged for them from the station. The Scottish women were already here, having come in the night; they had to sleep twelve or fifteen in a room. Next day a small contingent of the wounded Allies arrived.

Sir Ralph Paget arrived in a whirl. Leaders of units appeared from all sides, and a hurried conference was held.

Mr. Berry called a meeting at two. He said Paget had announced that the game was up; that all members of units should have the option of going home, and that he (Paget) was going to Kralievo to see about transports. Jan got to work on the map, and decided that the best route out would be one to Novi Bazar, and thence by tracks to Berane. There were villages marked in the mountains which did not seem so high as those by Ipek, also the road, if there were one, would be at least two days shorter.

Sir Ralph came back next day, and knowing that we had but lately returned from Montenegro, he asked Jan a lot of questions about the road, etc. Sir Ralph's latest decision was that all men of military age—not doctors—should attempt to cross the mountains into Montenegro. He could not say if any transport could be provided, or if there would be any means of escaping from Montenegro, and in consequence he advised no women to move, as they would be better where they were, than in facing the risks of the mountains; they would not be in the same danger as the orderlies, for whom internment was to be expected. Dr. Holmes decided to accompany us, as he said he wasn't going to doctor Germans, and he might be useful to the retreating Serbian army. Ellis also said that he would come and would bring his car, which would help us at least some of the way. Sir Ralph asked Jan to take charge of the party of the English Red Cross, and we went back to our rooms to repack, for Jo had already arranged things for internment, Mr. Blease decided to come with us. Nobody knew what the dangers would be, or where the Austrians and Germans were, and many doubted if it were possible to get through. The season was getting late, and snow was daily to be expected. Some imaginative people enlarged on "the brigands" and "wolves," but we did not think that they counted for much. The chief problems were, if we could get shelter each night, and could we carry enough food to support us in case we could get none, which seemed very possible.

We got an order from Gaschitch for bread from the Serbian authorities. We were going off into country, the real conditions of which nobody knew, and our friends took leave of us, many expecting to see us back in a few days. The Austrian prisoners were very sad at our going.

The station was dark and gloomy, the little gimcrack Turkish kiosk—like a bit of the White City—was filled with Red Cross stoves and beds. Two trains came in, but neither was for Kralievo; one was Red Cross and the other for Krusevatz. A lot of boys, in uniform, clambered on board and shouting out, "Sbogom Vrntze," were borne off into the night. Our spirits fell lower and lower. We thought of the friends we were leaving behind us, and of what we had before us. The reaction had set in, intensified by the gloom and cold of the station.

Hours later the train arrived. The only third-class carriage was filled to overflowing, people were standing on the platform and sitting on the steps. We tried the trucks. All were crammed so full that the doors could not be opened.

"You'd better go to-morrow," said the station-master.

"We're not going through that a second time," we said. "Can't we climb on to the roof?"

We scrambled up. There were other men there, lying in brown heaps. We made some of them move up a little, stowed our blankets and knapsacks, and sat amongst them.

"Are you all right?" shouted the station-master.

"Yes."

"Good-bye, then. Lie down when you come to the bridges, or you'll get your heads knocked off."

We lay down at once, taking no risks, not knowing when the bridges were coming. Luckily the wind was with us, and the night was warm. The engine showered sparks into the air, which fell little hot touches on to our faces and hands. Later a little rain fell.

Kralievo at three a.m. We did not know the town so Jo stormed the telegraph office. The officials tried to shut the door, but she got her foot into it.

"When I ask you a polite question you might answer it," she said.

"You can get shelter next door," said one grumpily.

We tried next door. It was crowded, and the heat within was unbearable. We saw a door in the opposite wall and opened it—back into the telegraph office. There were people sleeping there already, so without asking permission we dumped our baggage and lay down on the floor. The officials said nothing.

After a while two French generals (or somethings) came in. They were refused as we were, but they took no notice, unpacked their blankets and lay down under the great central table. With them was a wife, she sat miserably on a chair. The room got so stuffy when the door was shut that she wished it opened; the draught was so bad when the door was open that she immediately wished it shut. Unfortunately she got mixed: the Serbian for open is very like the word for shut, and she used them reversed. There was much confusion. Just as the officials were getting used to her inversions, she corrected herself. More confusion. An English girl came in, pushed aside the papers on the big table, and began to brew cocoa on a Primus stove which she had brought with her. The officials looked helplessly at each other. Jan recognized her as one of the Stobart unit from Krag: she had got astray from her band, but was now rejoining them.



CHAPTER XVII

KRALIEVO

We roused ourselves at seven a.m. A damp, chilly fog was hanging low over the valley, it penetrated to the skin, and one shuddered. The railway was congested, but train arrived after train, open trucks all packed with men whose breath rose in steam, and whose clothes were sparkling with the dew. We stepped from the station door into a thick black "pease puddingy" mud, as though the Thames foreshore had been churned up by traffic. Standing knee deep in the mud were weary oxen and horses attached to carts of all descriptions, with wheels whose rims, swollen by the mire, were sunk almost to the axles. Across the mud, surrounded by shaky red brick walls, the District Civil Hospital showed pale in the morning, and we made towards it, splashing.

We came to the lodge: an English girl was doing something to a kitchen stove. She stared at us.

"Hullo!"

"We've just come from Vrnjatchka Banja," we explained.

She took Jo to the hospital, while Blease and Jan dropped their heavy luggage and washed in a basin, provided by a Serb servant girl. Jo did not return. Jan went to the hospital to look for her.

Crowds of men were at the door, crowds in ragged and filthy uniforms, with bandages on arms, or foot, or brow, dirty stained bandages with bloodstains upon them. Some of the men were crouching on the ground, some were lying against the house, fast asleep. Somehow we got through them. The passage was full of men, and men were asleep, festooned on the stone stairs. The smell was horrible. Beyond a swinging glass door Scottish women were hurrying to and fro bandaging the men as they entered, and passing them out on the other side of the building. The Serbs waited with the stoicism of the Oriental, their long lean faces drawn with hunger, pain and fatigue. Now and again some man turned uneasily in his sleep and groaned. A detachment of "Stobarts" had found a lodging upstairs, in a bedroom with plank beds; amongst them we found some old friends.

Leaving them we went into the village to look for a meal, back through the mud. Soldiers, peasants, women, children, horse carts and bullock waggons, all were pushing here and there, broken down and deserted motor cars were standing in the middle of the road. In the great round central "Place" confusion was worse, animals, carts, and refugee bivouacks being all squashed together on the market place.

White-bearded officers with grey-green uniforms were gesticulating to white-bearded civilians outside the Cafe de Paris. A motor rushed up, disgorged three men in Russian uniform and fled. A small fat man vainly endeavouring to attract the attention of a staff officer grasped him by the arm; the staff officer shook him off angrily. Soldiers lounged against the walls and peered in through the dirty windows....

Within, the big dark room was crammed. Opening the door was like turning a corner of cliff by the seashore. Almost all, at the tables, were men: officers, tradesmen, clerks, talking in eager tense words. We found three seats. Nobody had anything to eat or drink. Three men came to the table next to us. They exhibited two loaves of bread to the others, and had the air of some one who had done something very clever. We were famished.

Suddenly half the cafe rose and rushed to a small counter almost hidden in the gloom of the far end. Coffee can be got, said some one. Blease, who could get out the easier, went to explore. In a short while he wandered back saying that he had got a waiter. A man came through selling apples. We bought some. At last the waiter came.

"Cafe au lait," said we.

"And bread," we added, as he turned away.

"Nema," he answered, looking back.

"Well eggs, then."

"Nema."

"What have you got?"

"We have nothing but meat."

"No potatoes?"

"No."

We got a sort of Serbian stew, the meat so tough that one had to saw the morsels apart with a knife and bolt them whole. As we were operating, a soldier leaned up against our table, and stared at our plates with a wistful longing. Jo caught his eye. She scraped together all our leavings; what misery we could have relieved, had we had money enough, in Serbia then.

We paid our bill with a ten dinar (franc) note. The waiter fingered it a moment.

"Haven't you any money?" he asked.

"That is money."

"Silver, I mean."

"No."

He hesitated a moment. Then went away, turning the note over in his hands. After a while he returned and gave us our change.

The day passed in a queer sort of daze of doing things; between one act and another there was no definite sequence. The town itself was in a sort of suppressed twitter, everybody's movements seemed exaggerated, the eager ones moved faster, impelled by a sort of fear; the slow ones went slower, their feet dragging in a kind of despondency. At one time we found ourselves clambering up some steps to the mayor's office, in search of bread. By a window on the far side of the room was a man with a pale face, eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep, and light hair: Churchin. We ran to him.

"What are you doing here?" he said gloomily.

We explained.

"I don't think you can get any transport," he said; "but later I'll see if I can do anything."

We thanked him. "But transport or no transport, we are going." Jan showed him the bread order. He read it and pointed to the Nachanlik.

The Nachanlik read our order, scowled and passed it on to another man, an officer. The officer read the order, looked us sulkily from head to foot, then he pushed the paper back to us.

"We have only bread for soldiers."

"But—we are an English Mission."

"Only for soldiers here. We have nothing to do with English Missions."

Fearing that we had come to the wrong place we retired.

At another time we were climbing up back stairs to what had been the temporary lodgings of the English legation. But it was empty and deserted; Sir Ralph Paget had not yet come.

There were bread shops, but they were all shut and guarded by soldiers. Jan saw some bread in a window. He went into the dirty cafe, which was crowded with soldiers, some sitting on the floor and some on the tables.

"Whose bread?" asked he.

"Ours."

"Will you sell me a loaf?"

"We won't sell a crumb."

We bought some apples from a man with a Roman lever balance, and chewed them as we went along.

At the hospital the "Stobarts" were packing up. A motor was coming for them in the afternoon. We heard that Dr. May and the Krag people were at Studenitza, an old monastery, halfway along the road to Rashka. On the flat fields behind the station were another gang of "Stobarts," the dispensary from Lapovo. One Miss H—— was in trouble, for thieves had pushed their arms beneath the tent flaps in the night and had captured her best boots.

"There are cases full of boots on the railway," said some one, consoling.

"But those are men's boots," said another.

Part of the morning we spent sitting on the banks of the Ebar River and watching the bridge, wondering if Ellis would come with his car. Ten times we thought we could see it, and each time were deceived.

The French aeroplanes came in. They hovered over the town seeking a flat place, finally swooping down on to the marshy plain on which the "Stobarts" were encamped. They landed, dashing through the shallow puddles and flinging the water in great showers on every side. As each landed it wheeled into line and was pegged down. Behind them was a line of cannons, the Serbian engineers were hard at work, smashing off their sighting apparatus, destroying the breech blocks, and jagging the lining with cold chisels. Some of the cannon were Turkish. All the morning, through the noise of the town, the shouting of the bullock drivers, the pant of the motor cars, and the steady tap, tap of the engineers' mallets, came the faint booming of the battle at Mladnovatch, not fifteen miles away.

After lunch we went again to the cafe. Again it was full, and we were forced to wait for a table. Just as we sat down a woman with a drawn, anxious face came up to us, clutched Jo by the arm and said eagerly—

"Is it true that you are going to Montenegro?"

"Yes," answered Jo. "If we can get there."

"Could you give me only a little advice, madame? You see we do not know what to do. My husband—he is an old man, and he is an Austro-Serb. If the enemy catch him they will hang him."

"I'm afraid he will have to walk," said Jo.

"But he is so old," said the woman, with tears in her eyes; "he is fifty."

"We ourselves will have to walk," said Jo. "Make him a knapsack for his food. Give him warm clothes. It is his only chance of safety. And," she added, "the sooner he gets away the better, for in a little all the food on the road will be eaten up, and one will starve."

The woman thanked us. "I will make him go at once," she said, and ran out wringing her hands.

A Russian woman with a thin-faced man sat at her table.

"You are going to Montenegro?" she said.

We nodded.

"I too am going. I am a good sportswoman. I have walked fifty kilometres in one day."

We looked at her well-corseted figure, her rather congested face, and had already seen thin high-heeled shoes.

"I will come with you, yes?"

The little man interrupted. "Why do you say such things, Olga? You know that you cannot walk a mile."

We pointed out that we were going to march across the Austrian front, and that no one could tell us where the Austrians were exactly; that our safety depended to some extent on our speed, and that the failure of one to make the pace meant the failure of all. The little man drew her away.

In the afternoon a miserable fit of depression took us, but we pushed it behind us. To the hospital for tea, taking with us a tin of cocoa and some condensed milk, which the people lacked. Biscuits and treacle, the treacle looted from the railway, where an obliging guard had said that he could not give permission to take it, but that he could look the other way. We heard the tale of Kragujevatz, of the camp and all the buildings filled to overflowing. More aeroplane raids; and of the sudden order to evacuate. All the wounded who could crawl were got from their beds and turned into the street by the authorities to go: if they could not walk, to crawl. A few Serb and Austrian doctors were left to guard and watch those too ill to go; with them some Swedish and Dutch sisters, and the Netherlands flag flying from the hospitals. Dr. Churchin seemed to have been the good genius of the Missions, never flagging in his efforts for them.

We heard that a Colonel Milhaelovitch was the bread officer. He lived somewhere in the back of the big yellow schoolhouse at the end of the street. After tea we wandered drearily down to seek him, gained permission from a sentry, and clambered up some stone stairs. Jan saw an acquaintance from the Nish ministry, asked him a question, and was ushered ... straight into the Ministry of War. They seemed in a frightful stew about something, an air of disorder reigned everywhere, but somebody found time to look at the order.

"Nachanlik," said he.

"We've been there already."

"Well, go there again and say we sent you, and that they must give you bread."

We were worn out by this. Jo went off to the plank bed which the Stobarts had promised to her, while Jan and Blease to the tents, where Sir Ralph's men were sheltering.

All the streets were edged with motionless bullock carts, in which men were sleeping, and even in the mud between their wheels were the dim forms of the weary soldiery. The two splashed across the marsh and found the tents.

Rogerson and Willett were there; Willett was seedy. Another Englishman named Hamilton, who had an umbrella which he had sworn to take back with him to England. Also two Austro-Serb boys who had been acting as interpreters.

West and Mawson were not there. Rogerson said that Sir Ralph had sent them with Mrs. M——to see the road and conditions at Mitrovitza; nobody knew when they would be back. We got two beds, but there were no mattresses on the springs. Jan rolled up in his Serbian rug, but it was loosely woven, and not as warm as he had hoped. Just not warm enough, one only dozed. About eleven o'clock, Cutting came in with Owen, Watmough, Hilder, and Elmer. They had come from Vrnjatchka Banja with Dr. Holmes. Some one had told them that we had deserted them and had gone off to Rashka on our own; they were cheered to find us still there. After that we lay awake discussing details. None of them had realized the difficulties of the road and the probable lack of food, though the Red Cross men had brought with them a case of emergency rations. Jan exposed his idea of the route; somebody said that there was some corned beef and rice in a Red Cross train on the siding.

Intermittently in the silences one could still hear the sound of the guns.

Next morning at breakfast Dr. Holmes came in. He had thought us gone, and so had procured for himself and the sister who was with him, seats in a Government motor which was going to Mitrovitza. We all splashed across the marshy grass to the siding where the stores were. In the empty trucks on the line families were camping, and some had fitted them up like little homes. We found the truck, and with efforts dug out twelve tins of corned beef, a case of condensed milk, one of treacle, and two tins of sugar. We emptied a kitbag and filled it with rice.

The hospital was fuller than ever. The Scottish nurses were toiling as quickly as they could, and each man received a couple of hard ship's biscuits from a great sack, when his wounds were dressed. He immediately wolfed the hard biscuits and lay down; in one minute he was asleep, and the hospital grounds were strewn with the sleeping men. From time to time sergeants came in, roused the sleepers, formed them into detachments, and marched them off.

The Stobarts met us wringing their hands. There was no bread, nor could they procure any. Jan took their order, and we promised to see what could be done. As we passed the station we saw surging crowds of men, from the midst came cries of pain, and sticks were falling in blows.

"Good Lord, what's that?" we cried.

We plunged into the crowd. Some of the men and boys were gnawing angrily at pieces of biscuit which they held in their hands. The crowd surged more violently, the sticks were plied with greater vigour; presently the crowd fell back snarling. The ground which they left was covered with the crumbs of trampled biscuit, and the soldiers drove the crowd yet further back, beating with sticks and cursing. A bread sack being unloaded from a waggon had burst, the hungry crowd had pounced ... that was all. As we withdrew we saw the fortunate ones still gnawing ferociously at the hard morsels which they had captured.

We took our passes to the mayor once more. He received us angrily.

"I told you yesterday," he said.

"The War Office sent us," said Jan, sweetly, "and said that you must give us bread."

"I have no bread," said the mayor. "You must go to Colonel Milhaelovitch."

We tramped back to the yellow school. There was no sentry, and a queer air of forlornness seemed to pervade. We asked a loiterer for the colonel's office. He pointed. We climbed yet another stair and found a pair of large rooms; they were empty. Town papers were scattered on the floor, one table was overturned.

A man lounged in. "Where is the colonel?" we asked.

"Ne snam bogami," he said, twisting a cigarette.

"Well, find out," said Jan.

He lounged away and presently returned with another.

"The colonel has evacuated," said the other; "he went naturally with the Ministry of War to Rashka last night."

We went back in a fury to the mayor.

"You knew this," we cried angrily to him.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Where can we get bread?"

He took up the passes and looked at them. His face lightened.

"This one," he said, turning to another, "is written—Give them bread to the value of three francs. We will give them three francs."

"No you won't," said we; "you'll give us bread. You cannot leave these English sisters to starve."

After some grumbling he said we could inquire at the "first army." We made him write out an order; we also made him give us a clerk to accompany us. He gave us a tattered old man whose toes were sticking from his boots.

We presented both orders at the "first army." It refused at once. We threatened it with the War Office and with the mayor. After some demur it sent us across the town again to the "magazine" office.

At the magazine office we were more wily. We presented our little order for three humble loaves. He first said "Nema," then admitted that there was bread and that we could have it. We then showed the order for the other loaves.

"No, no," he cried, "you cannot have all that bread."

We pointed out that it was not much for a whole mission. He still refused. So Jo got up and made a little speech. It was a nasty little speech, but they deserved it, for we had found that they had bread.

She pointed out that the English Missions had now been working in Serbia for a year, gratis; that no matter if we got no transport we were going to get to England, and that it would not look well in the English papers if we wrote a true account of our experiences, saying that they had allowed the English Missions to starve. The threat of publicity finished him. He grumbling consented to give us ten loaves in addition to our own to last for two days. Not daring to leave them, and to send an orderly for them, we rolled them up in Jo's overcoat and staggered down the road to the hospital.

On the way we met an old Serbian peasant woman. She walked for a while with us, turning her eyes to heaven and crying—

"What times we live in. Only God can help, only God."

At the hospital we met Sir Ralph Paget. He told us that the Transport Board had promised him ten ox carts for the morrow. Two large motor lorries had turned up to take the two contingents of the "Stobarts." They were packing in, and we asked them to take our holdall as far as Rashka, for we were still distrustful of the ox carts. We had begun to get into a habit of not believing in anything till it was actually there.

An Englishman came suddenly in with a face purple with anger and swearing. He was the dispenser from Krag who had been left at Lapovo to bring on the stores.

"What's the matter?" we cried.

"Brought my motor from Lapovo with the hospital stuff," he said furiously. "Left it out there on the road. Came in here to tell you about it; and when I go back the cussed thing isn't there. Found all the stores in a beastly bullock cart. The people said that a Serb officer had come along, turned all our stuff out, and gone off with the motor. * * * *."

There was nothing to be done, so we went on packing. An aeroplane was seen in the distance; everybody watched it.

"Taube," said somebody.

The Taube sailed slowly round, surveying the town. It passed right overhead. Everybody stared upwards wondering if it were going to "bomb," for we were just opposite to the railway station. But it passed over and flew away. As it went guns fired at it, and many of the Serbs let off their rifles. We have often wondered where all the bits of the shells go to, for nobody ever seems to be hit by them, even when they are bursting right overhead.

The motor gave several snorts, everybody climbed aboard. The driver let in the clutch, there was a tearing sound from underneath, but the motor did not go. One of the drivers clambered down, and after examination said that it could not go on that day, and they immediately began to take it to pieces. The aeroplane came back twice, sailing to and fro without hindrance.



It is impossible to describe properly the feeling in the town: it was like standing in the influence of high-pressure electricity, even in the daytime the soldiers in their rags—but with barbarously coloured rugs and knapsacks—were sleeping in the hedges and gutters. There were vague rumours that Rumania and Greece had finally joined in; many seized upon these statements as being true, and one found little oases of rejoicings amongst the almost universal pessimism. We ourselves doubted the reports. Sir Ralph's ox carts—in an interview with Churchin—dwindled down to a possible two; but Jan got a letter in the evening saying that there were ten country carts for the next morning. Six were for us and four for the "Stobarts," and that we were to take the Indian tents with us.

We went back to the tents early to get a good start next day. Rogerson and Willett were sorting their clothes. Hamilton had decided, as he could not walk, to go back to Vrntze with the Red Cross stores which Paget was sending to the hospital. As we were turning in, Dr. Holmes arrived. He had not got the seat in the motor, but was going next day. Later two mud-bespattered figures came in. They were West and Mawson.

We questioned them eagerly, and although they were worn out they answered all they could.

The road was passable. They had scarcely slept for four days, Mitrovitza was already crammed with fugitives, and rooms were not to be found. On the way back the motor was working badly; the mud was awful. Then the petrol ran out. They stopped a big car which was loaded with petrol and ammunition, and asked for some. They got a little, and as they were going to start the big car suddenly burst into flames: some fool having struck a match to see if the petrol was properly turned off. Great flames roared up into the air, and it was a long time before the car was sufficiently burnt down to pass it.

West said that it was a most marvellous picture.

A little farther on a tyre had burst, and they had been forced to come back on the rims. They eagerly welcomed Jan's idea of the Novi Bazar route, feeling sure that if they once got to Mitrovitza it would be long before they got away, and very doubtful if they could get lodging there.

Again we could hear the guns in the night, and news had come in that Krag had been occupied and that the German cavalry were making towards Kralievo.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE FLIGHT OF SERBIA

The men were up before three-thirty to strike the tents, having slept but little. Breakfast was prepared and waiting at five-thirty in the big hospital bedroom; but the women ate of it alone.

Jo sallied forth to the camp, anxious to know what had happened. She found a testy little company. For two hours they had been struggling in the dark with tents and waiting for the carts and for a policeman, as all the riff-raff of the town was gathering to loot our leavings.

At last the carts were run to earth standing outside the hospital in a line—ten little springless carts in charge of a stupid-looking corporal who had misunderstood his orders. He moreover refused to move, saying he "had his orders."

The indefatigable Churchin was found, and sent him off with a flea in his ear. When he arrived at the camp we found a woman and household luggage in one of the carts. He said it was his wife, and objected to our putting anything into that cart. We told him he would have to lump it, and he got sulky; as each extra package was put on a cart he said that it would break to pieces. Certainly the tents were very heavy, but we had been ordered to take them. When the carts were loaded up to the last degree they moved slowly through the mud and drew up at the hospital. We were sadly overladen. Our party consisted of Mawson, West, Cutting, Rogerson, Willett, Blease, Angelo, Whatmough, Elmer, Owen, and Hilder—the last four being our friends of the railway journey from Nish. We were thirteen. Temporarily with us also were the two little Austro-Serbian boys. The other four carriages were occupied by a doctor and three members of the Stobart unit, two "Scottish Women," their orderly and a Russian medical student who had been a political prisoner.

Leaving the town was a slow business, as it was being evacuated. Our little procession proceeded very slowly. Most of us walked. Jo drove with two of the Stobarts, watching from a seat of vantage the packed masses of people who wormed their way in and out between the ox carts. The road was blocked by some gigantic baking ovens on wheels. Hundreds of boys, big seventeen-year-old boys with guns, and little limping fellows from thirteen to sixteen, wearing bright rugs rolled over their shoulders, were dragging along in single file. Their faces were white, and their noses red, sergeants were beating the backward ones along with a ramrod. One of them said—

"I have eaten nothing for three days—give me bread." We had no bread, but we discovered some Petit-Beurre biscuits, and left him turning them over and over.

The whole town buzzed: motor cars, surrounded by curses, insinuated their way through the crammed streets; whips were cracking, men were quarrelling but all had their faces turned towards the road to Rashka, which we realized would be as full as at straphanging time in the Tube. The boys passed us, then we passed them. They passed us again. Hundreds of Austrian prisoners were being hurried along, goodness knows where. Neat young clerks, suit case in hand, elbowed their way through the crowd. Young staff officers were walking, jostled by beggars. Jo called to an old man who was driving a cart full of modern furniture, his face drawn into wrinkles of misery—

"Where are you going?"

"Ne snam," he answered, staring hopelessly before him.

Wounded men were everywhere, tottering and hobbling along, for none wanted to be taken prisoners. Some had ship's biscuit, which they tried to soften in the dirty ditch water, others were lapping like dogs out of the puddles. Sometimes a motor far ahead stuck in the mud, and we had to wait often half an hour until it could be induced to move. Gipsies passed, better mounted and worse clad than other folk, some of them half naked. Many soldiers had walked through their opankies and their feet were bound up with rag. Why in this country of awful mud has the opankie been invented? It is a sole turned up at the edges and held on by a series of straps and plaited ornamentations useless in mud or wet, which penetrates through it in all directions.

We arrived at an open space and halted for lunch. Water had to be fetched. It trickled from a wooden spout out of the hill and before our cooking pot was filled we were surrounded by thirsty soldiers, who were consigning us to the hottest of places for our slowness. Cutting displayed a hitherto buried talent for building fires. We unpacked the food and soon a gorgeous curry was bubbling in an empty biscuit tin with Angelo, Sir Ralph Paget's chef, at the spoon. A leviathan motor car lurched by containing all that was left of the Stobart unit. Another monster passed, piled with Russian nurses and doctors. A face was peeping out at the back, eyes rolled upwards, moustaches bristling. Was it? Yes, it was—"Quel Pays"—but he did not recognize us.



The baking ovens appeared again, and we felt we had stayed long enough. Some of our party were very fagged after their various adventures since leaving Nish, so they climbed on to the carriages wherever there was a downhill. The road wound up a narrow stony valley down which was flowing a muddy stream. The trees on our side of the river were still green, on the other bank they were bright orange, blood red and all the tints of a Serbian autumn. The road full of moving people was like another river, flowing only more sluggishly then the Ebar itself. For us in future, the autumn will always hold a sinister aspect. These trees seemed to have put on their gayest robes to mock at the dreary processions. At intervals by the roadside sat an ox dead beat and forsaken by its owner as useless.

Dusk came, bringing depression; the travellers on the curly road looked like mere shades. Coat collars went up and hands were pocketed. Little camp fires began to twinkle here and there on the hillsides. We came to a large open space where many fires blazed, respectfully encircling a French aeroplane section. Opposite was a high peak topped by a Turkish castle. There we wished to halt, but the corporal said we must push on, as he wished to get food for the horses. After we had passed the castle the dusk grew rapidly darker and the road narrower and more muddy. Although camp fires twinkled from every level space, the never ending stream of fugitives seemed to grow no less. Darkness only added to the tragic mystery of the flight. The bullock carts poured along, the soldiers crowded by.

A horse went down, the owner stripped the saddle off, flung it into a cart and cursing stumbled on into the darkness. The carts following took no notice of the poor horse but drove over it, the wheel lifting as they rolled across its body. We shouted to the owner; but he was gone, so we turned one or two of the carts off, and made them go round. But we could not stay there all night. The horse was too done, and too much injured by the cruel passage to move, so Jan reluctantly pulled out his "automatic" and, standing clear of its hoofs, put two bullets through its brain. It shuddered, lifted two hoofs and beat the air and sank into a heap.

On we went progressing for mile after mile in the mire, but never a house did we see, nor a spot to camp on. At last the corporal gave up the quest for hay, and we were faced with the problem of spending the night on a narrow road bounded on one side by cliffs beneath which ran the Ebar, and on the other by an almost perpendicular bank. The night was black, the mud a foot deep, and a stream ran across the road. The carriages drew up in single file and we discussed the sleeping problem, while Cutting cooked bovril on an ill-behaved Primus stove. Our drivers had to sleep on the carts. The women also had carts to sleep in; and the Scottish women offered Jo a place in their already well-filled carriage. The men were fitted somehow into the rest of the carts, while Jo, Jan, and Blease found a ledge below the road, and though it was very squelchy, they spread a mackintosh sheet and rolled up on it in their rugs.

No sooner were they really settled and sleeping than a voice said, "You'll have to get up: an officer says the carriages must move on—the King is coming." It was West. We sat up. Between us and the dim lights of the carts the black shadows of the crowds passed without end.

"I'll go and talk to them," said Jo; and unrolled herself, struggled and fumbled with her boots and floundered into the blackness, where a mounted officer was delivering orders. Shouts could be heard, lights waved, horses whinnied, splashing their feet in the puddles as they were being violently pulled here and there, and our poor little carts were moving ahead into obscurity. Jo told him they were a Red Cross party—that the carts were small, and couldn't they stay where they were? The officer inspected the poor little carts, made his best bow, and said, "Yes, they can stay."

But the corporal did not listen to Jo's orders. He belonged to a country which rates women and cattle together, and the carts moved relentlessly on. With difficulty Jo found the ledge again on which Jan was sitting with the rugs, talking to the scenery in a manner which was not pretty.

Blease came up, and the three of us shouldered the things and stumbled off to find the vanished carriages, which were half a mile down the road. Jan flung his baggage on to somebody and soundly boxed the corporal's ears, calling him a "gloop." Instantly the corporal felt that "here was a man he could really understand," and from that moment became a devoted adherent, studying our slightest whim, and at intervals humbly laying walnuts before us.

A man came up to Jan.

"I believe that man is drunk," said he; "I said that your carts might stand."

"Who are you?" said Jan.

"I was once the conductor of the Crown Prince's orchestra," he said; "now I am traffic superintendent. It is difficult. I had a horse, a jolly little brown horse, but he gave out and I had to leave him behind on the road." There were tears in the man's voice. "He was a good horse, but it was too hard for him. Now I have to walk."

"I shot your horse," said Jan. "They were driving over its body."

"He was a nice horse," said the man again, "a nice horse, and now I have to walk. Well, good-bye, you can rest here."

He splashed away in the mud.

Our new sleeping place was worse: the mud was deeper, the road narrower. Jo tried to escape the mud and made for the roadside, but the ground moved under her and some muttered curses arose. She was walking not on grass but on crowds of sleeping boys, and very nearly trod on a face. We settled down again on our mackintosh sheet but did not sleep. Some soldiers were firing off guns and throwing bombs into the river all night. Near us lay Owen, who coughed for a couple of hours, after which he gave up the spot as being too wet, and lay in a cart on Whatmough's face.

It rained, Jo had the fidgets, and Jan expostulated. The mackintosh was too small for us and we got gloriously wet. It is a curious feeling—the rain pattering on one's face when trying to sleep. By the time one becomes accustomed to the monotony of the tiny drops—splash a big drop from a tree. Water collects in folds of hat or rug, and suddenly cascades down one's neck.

At four in the morning the corporal crept up submissively to ask if we might move on, as the horses were cold and hungry. Only too glad, dark as it was, we rolled up our damp bundles and put them in the waggons with the sleeping people, who awoke, pink-eyed and puzzled at the sudden progress forward of their uncomfortable beds. Whatmough, who was convinced that the bombs and gunshots of the night before were spent Austrian shells sailing over the hill, said—

"That's the first time I've ever liked a fellow sleeping on my face."

One of the Stobart nurses, who had used the remains of the hay as a pillow, had been awake all night trying to prevent a hungry horse from eating her hair along with the hay. With determination she had donned a Balaklava helmet and trudged along all day in it, even later when the sun came out. Blease, too, started the chillsome dawn in a Balaklava wearing shawlwise a rug that had been made of bits of various coloured woollen scarfs. Jan used as a protection from the rain Jo's white mackintosh apron filleted round his head with a bit of string and dangling behind with a profusion of tapes and fasteners.

Under his khaki great-coat and about a foot longer he wore a white jaconet hospital coat. Jo had a pair of roomy ski boots into which she had fitted two pairs of stockings; one had been knitted for her by a Serbian girl, and they were so thick and hard that no suspender would hold them up, so they stood, concertinawise, over the boots. One of our drivers, a witch-faced old man, had a dark red cloak with a peaked hood; and West having lost his hat had donned a Serbian soldier's cap, which he was taking away as a curiosity. His arm was giving him pain. It was very red and inflamed and no one knew what was the matter with it.

We travelled for an hour or so, and then everything on the road came to a standstill—something was in the way. Half an hour passed, nothing was done. Several miles of drivers were talking, gesticulating, and blaspheming; so Jan took on the job of traffic superintendent, and after a time, with a little backing here and twisting there, the problem was solved and we moved on. Still no hay stations could be found, and we were also hungry, having had no breakfast. We passed a mound covered with thousands of Austrian prisoners waking up in the twilight. Another hill was black with boys. Still no station. Then we saw some haystacks being taken to pieces by various drivers. Our ten coachmen ran to the stacks and came back with loads of hay which they packed in the carts. In five minutes the haystacks existed no more.

"Better not leave that good hay for the Swobs," said the corporal, as he whipped up the horses. We passed a dressing-station. It was a sort of laager of ox carts over which flew the red cross. Wounded soldiers were sitting and lying on the grass everywhere, while doctors and nurses were hurrying to and fro with bandages and lint.

Water was difficult to find. At last we stopped at the top of a hill in a furious wind. The water which we got from a stream looked filthy, but we boiled it thoroughly in a biscuit tin, and Angelo again presided over a magnificent curry filled with bully beef, while we hit our toes on the ground to keep warm. A wounded soldier was brought up by a friend. He had not been attended to for days, and we did the best we could for him.

A carriage passed laden with two tiny boxes—a policeman on either side. Although the boxes were small the carriage seemed so heavy that the horses could scarcely drag it, and two well-dressed men who were riding on the carriage often had to get out and push. We wondered if the boxes were filled with gold. The dreary processions of starving boys shuffled up again; some were crying, some helping others along, one had an English jam tin hanging round his neck. Sir Ralph Paget appeared in a motor car, loaded with packages and three other people. We stopped him, and he told Jan that at Novi Bazar he could get no information of the path which Jan suggested, and added that he advised us to come to Mitrovitza. The Scottish women were to give up the idea of a dressing-station in Novi Bazar and to stop at Rashka. The Serbs had told him that there was a good chance of Uskub being retaken, in which case we could all go comfortably to Salonika by rail. In the other case, there were three roads out of the country from Mitrovitza, which he thought better than trusting to one road, if it existed.

Jan told him that the carriages were giving way under the strain of the tents, two of the axle struts having broken; and he suggested that if we did not jettison the tents, some of the carriages would probably never get as far as Rashka. Sir Ralph told him to do what he thought best.

So we pitched the two heavy tops and the long bamboo poles overboard, keeping the sides.

"Oh, what are you doing with our tents?" said one of the Scottish nurses.

This was complicated! We understood the tents were Sir Ralph's.

All the men swore they were Sir Ralph's tents, they had seen them at Nish. The "Scottish Woman" said she knew the tents well, and they had cost L50 each. The men from Nish still claimed the tents, and said that war was war and they had left thousands of pounds' worth of stores, tents, etc., and had been obliged to discard even motor cars.

"And very extravagant it was of you," she said.

Jan pointed out that if we did not leave the tents we should very shortly have to discard both tents and carts, which would be even more extravagant.

She reluctantly cheered up, and we drove away in the sunshine. Before we turned the corner we could see an excited mass of soldiers, peasants, and boys rushing to the tents with their clasp knives. Perhaps, as coverings, they saved many people's lives on the cold nights to come.



More and more exhausted oxen were to be seen lying by the roadside. A huge cart drove over one. We all arose in our seats, horrified—but the old ox was all right, still chewing the cud. Over the cliff lay the smashed remains of a cart—its owners were flaying the dead horse. A peasant with bowed head led his cart past us. Drawing it was one ox—its partner was in the cart, lifting its head spasmodically—finished. Quantities of carts passed us filled with furniture, baths, and luggage. A smartly dressed family was picnicking by the roadside, sitting on deck-chairs. Colonel P—— and Admiral T—— slipped by in a shabby little red motor. They stopped and told us they were going to Rashka. It was good to see English faces again. A familiar figure went by. It was the brave young officer from Uzhitze. We gave a lift to a footsore lieutenant, who laughed as we trudged in the mud.

"Ah, English and sport," he said.

Crowds were congregated round a man who was carrying over his shoulder a whole sheep on a spit and chopping bits off for buyers. On a hillside a woman was handing out rakia. We thought she was selling it, but were told that it was a funeral and she was giving rakia to all who wanted it. Starving Austrian prisoners rushed for a glass and were not refused. The Crown Prince passed, touching his hat to fifty kilometres of his people. This time we were not going to be caught by the darkness, so we stopped near a village at half-past three. The sides of the two tents made good shelters for us. They were set up, looking like two long card-houses, and we used bits of canvas for flooring, very necessary, as it was so wet. Our fires were quickly made with superfluous tent pegs, and the rice bag was again drawn forth. A groaning soldier with bloodstained bandage asked us to help him. His arm had not been dressed for some time. The doctor with us at first thought he had better not be tampered with; but finally agreed to look at his wound, which was bleeding violently.

She tore up a towel and bound him up tightly. He said he was going to Studenitza, a long day's walk, though he was nearly fainting.

On the hill opposite was a huge encampment of boys. As the darkness grew all disappeared but the light of the fires. It looked like an ancient battleship with the portholes on fire. We slept, the women fairly comfortably, but the men were overcrowded.

Heavy rain came on and poured through the top of the card houses.

"Now I know what the men suffer in the trenches," said a very young girl, when she awoke in a pool of water.

"Guess you don't—they'd call this clover," said a sleepy voice.

Looking our oddest we trudged off in the gloom and wet of next morning, leaping across rivulets of water which hurtled down the roads. West's arm was worse, Willett was recovering from a bad chill, Mawson had not yet got a decent night's rest for a week—every one longed for a house.

"Dobra Dan," said a voice. It was the friend of the wounded man we had bound up the first day.

"Where is your friend?" we asked.

"I lost him," he answered.

We climbed for three hours then waited, blocked. A military motor had stuck deeply in the mud and the wheels were buzzing round uselessly, so we helped to dig her out. Every one's inside cried for breakfast, and when at last we found a swampy plain, Whatmough and Cutting flung themselves upon an old tree trunk and cut it up for firewood.

We always had "company" to these picnic meals, hungry soldiers, mere ragbags held together by bones, crept around us and learnt for the first time the joys of curry and cocoa.

As we came round the corner into sight of the town a large block of temporary encampments stretched away beyond the river to our left. Beyond them was a flat plain on which was a large tent with a red cross painted over it. High behind the town towered a grey hill on which was a white Turkish blockhouse, for though where we were driving had always been Serbia, Rashka lay just on the boundary. We drove into a narrow street, presently coming to a stop where two motor cars blocked the way.

The Commandant from Kragujevatz, who had promised transport to all English hospitals, was standing on the road. He seemed very flustered and bothered lest we should want him to do something for us. We assured him we wanted nothing except bread, for neither we nor our drivers had had bread for three days. The colonel shrugged his shoulders and made a face.

"You might get it perhaps at the hospital."

Another officer, in a long black staff coat, laughed. He pulled a hard biscuit out of each pocket, looked at them fondly and pushed them back again.

"I've got mine anyway," he said. "Bread is ten shillings a loaf if you can buy it."

Annoyed by the colonel's manner Jo began to mount her high horse and became blunt. He was instantly suave.

He seemed dismayed at our idea (to which we still held) of going to Novi Bazar before Mitrovitza to see if really no route existed there.

"Impossible," said he; "bridges are broken between Rashka and Novi Bazar, and there is no route through the mountains from there."

We remembered that the country had been under Turkish rule there years before, and guessed that probably the Serbs had not yet been able to exploit new and lonely routes. At every side in the streets were faces we knew, the head medical this and the chief military that.

Our personal carts went off in charge of the corporal, who was looking for bread from the Government, for of course all bread shops were shut permanently.

The Scottish sisters had not found a refuge, and messengers kept on coming back saying this place was full and that place had no room.

Colonel G—— became even less likable. It seemed as though there were no organisation of any kind in the town. At last, when dark had well fallen, a man said a room had been cleared for them in the hospital. The motor cars moved slowly off and we told the rest of our carts to follow, as Colonel G——said we might get bread at the same place. We stumbled after them through pitch black streets, so uneven that one did not know if one were in the ditch or on the road itself; one lost all sense of direction and only tried not to lose sight of the flickering lights of the carts. Jo at last climbed into one, and the carts rumbled over a wooden bridge and began to go up a steep hill. We came suddenly to a rambling wooden house and our carts dived into a deep ditch. Jo leapt off just in time to save hers from turning right over. Crowds of wounded Serbians were standing at the foot of a rickety outside staircase. Above was a dressing-station, and a dark smelly room with no beds, which was to be the sisters' home. We could get no bread and so went out once more into the dark. We did not know where our carts had gone, but some one said if we went in "that" direction we should find them. On we went uphill, losing our way in a maize field. In front of us were hundreds of camp fires. At the first we asked if they had seen the English. They shrugged their shoulders in negative. We asked at the next; same result. We had the awful thought that we should have to search every camp fire before we found our people, but luckily almost fell over Mawson, who had been fetching water. We were going in quite the wrong direction and but for this lucky meeting might have wandered for hours.

A good fire was blazing in front of the tents. An Austrian prisoner cut wood for us in exchange for a meal. He came from a large encampment whose fires were blazing near by. Dr. Holmes and a sister emerged through the smoke; they had at last got a cart and horse. With them was an Austrian subject flying for his life. He had lived for years in Serbia, his sympathies and ancestry were Serbian, but if the Austrians got him he would be hanged. We wondered if it was the husband of the frantic woman at Kralievo, but did not ask.

One went early to bed these nights. The men spread out into two card-houses while Jo was hospitably given a real camp-bedstead in a corner of the Stobarts' kitchen, on the floor of which slept their men and also West, whose arm was getting worse.



CHAPTER XIX

NOVI BAZAR

We awoke to find where we were. The little encampment which we had seen to our left on entering the town, was now far on our right. The flat plain—where was the large tent with the red cross painted over it—had been our bed, the tent behind us; to our right was the brown hill topped by the old Turkish blockhouse; and in front a cut maize field with its solid red stubble sloped directly to the river, beyond which lay the village massed on the opposite slope up to a white church. Immediately below us on the river edge were the roofs of the "Stobarts'" refuge and of the Scottish women's hospital. Poplar trees in all the panoply of autumn sprang up from the valley with their tops full of the blackest crows, who cawed discordantly at the dawn. Our fire had gone out, but the Austrian had left enough wood, another was quickly started; but we found that Angelo in making his curries had melted all the solder from the empty biscuit tins and not one would hold water. So there was a hurried transference of biscuits from a whole one.

From where we sat sipping our cocoa, we could see the hurried coming and going of motors in the main square, and groups of bullock waggons and soldiers about the fence of the church. A great street which split the village in two from top to bottom—the old Turkish frontier—was almost empty. The corporal proposed to visit the military commandant in search of hay and bread. So Jan dragged on his wet boots and set off with him down the hill, collecting Jo from the "Stobarts" on the way.

We crossed the rickety wooden bridge, passed between the alfresco encampments—like travelling tinkers—of waggoners and soldiers which lined the roads, up the great frontier street and so into the square. All that now was SERBIA was concentrated in this little village. Private houses had suddenly become ministries; cafes, headquarters; and shops, departmental offices. The square was the central automobile station, and cars under repair or adjustment were in every corner. Beneath the church paling a camp of waggoners had a large bonfire and were cooking a whole sheep on a spit. Austrian prisoners with white, drawn faces were wandering about, staring with half unseeing eyes; a Serbian soldier was chewing a hard biscuit, and a prisoner crept up to him begging for a corner of the bread; the soldier broke off a piece and gave it to him.

About the gate of the commandant's office were gathered Serbs and Austrians all waiting for bread. We pushed our way in. The hay was quickly arranged, but the bread was another matter.

"We have no bread," said the commandant.

"But," we objected, "all those men waiting outside. They would not come here if you had no bread."

The commandant pulled his moustache.

"We have bread only for soldiers."

There was a sudden commotion outside. The door was burst open; two soldiers entered dragging with them a man—a peasant; his eyes were staring, his face blanched. We then noticed that he was holding his shoulders in a curious manner, and realized that his arms were bound with his own belt. The two soldiers pushed him into an inner room, but the officials were busy, so he was stood in a corner.

"What has he done?" we asked.

"We have only bread for soldiers," repeated the commandant. Bread was evidently the most important.

"We have a Government order."

He scanned it, pounced upon the three franc phrase and offered us money. We pointed out that bread was indicated to the value—

"We have no bread for the English," he said at last.

Jo once more made the nasty little speech which we had found so effective at Kralievo. It worked like a charm. An enormous sack filled with loaves was dragged out and from it he choose three. We mentioned the man once more. The commandant shrugged his shoulders.

"He's going to be killed," he said. "Some soldiers looted his yard and he shot one."

He then asked the corporal if he would take flour instead of bread. The corporal agreed, adding that in that case, of course, they would get a bit more.

"Of course, you won't," said the commandant.

We sent the corporal back to the camp with the loaves, and with a little trouble found the house where Colonel P—— and Admiral T——had lodgings. It was a gay little cottage, and both were at breakfast. They welcomed us and generously offered us their spare eggs, though eggs were scarce. The admiral had a large-scale map—made, of course, by Austria—and we hunted it for our road. Paths were marked quite clearly, and houses at most convenient intervals. It seemed a far superior path to the Ipek pass, both regarding shelter and length.

"But," we said, "Sir Ralph suggests that we go to Mitrovitza, because the Serbs say that Uskub will fall in a few days."

"I should get out of the country as soon as you can," said one.

"It is exceedingly unlikely that Uskub can fall," said the other. But they promised us as definite information as they were allowed to give if we would return for tea, by when the aeroplane reconnaissance should have come in.

We went back to the camp with the news.

Colonel G—— came up and tried to wipe out the impression which he had made the evening before. He repeated that Uskub must certainly fall within the week, and that we should be very silly to go off to Novi Bazar, which we could never reach because the bridge had been washed away.

All the hill behind was crowded with Austrian prisoners. They had received one loaf between every three men, and said that it had to last three days. They did not know where they were going. Blease went through their lines, and at last found an old servant—a Hungarian. He was a stoic.

"One lives till one is dead," said he.

The hospital was doing a brisk trade in wounded: sisters and doctors both hard at work. The "Stobarts" were resting, and had built a camp fire outside the door of their hovel. We got lunch ready, ruining recklessly another biscuit tin. While we were eating it a Serb came near.

"I am starving," he said.

We gave him some curry and rice. He devoured it.

"To-morrow," he said, "I go back to commando."

We pointed to his hand, which was bound in dirty linen.

"But?"

"It is better to go back though wounded than be starved to death."

We also held a court of justice. A driver complained that one of the Englishmen had given him a pair of boots and that the corporal had taken them.

"CORPORAL!!"

He came grinning. We exposed the complaint.

"Certainly the man had a pair of boots," said he; "but he has them no longer. Now, they are mine, I have taken them."

"But they were given to him."

"But I have taken them. I needed new boots." He exhibited his own, which were split.

We told him that possession by capture was not recognized in our circle, and ordered immediate restitution. He agreed gloomily, no doubt feeling that the foundations of his world were falling about his ears, and what was the use of being a corporal anyway?

In the afternoon we sought out the motor authorities, finding our old friends Ristich and Derrok in command. They easily promised us transport for Sir Ralph Paget's box and henchmen—no trouble at all they said. Yet had we not known them personally we might have waited a month without help. One is irresistibly reminded at every turn that the Near East means the East near the East and not the East near the West.

We went to the English colonel's, but no news was yet forthcoming, and we were, after a jolly tea, invited back at eight.

The camp was in darkness by the time we reached it once more. The fire lit up the men sitting about it, and the two inverted V's of the tent entrances; very faintly behind could be seen the outline of the line of little tented waggons. We had collected an additional member, Miss Brindley of the "Stobarts." She was very keen to get home, as her parents were anxious, and both her brothers at the front. Jo gave one look at her and said "Certainly." She had rushed immediately into the town and had laid in a stock of beans and lentils, as her contribution to the common stock. They were all she could buy.

After supper back to the colonel's, and at last got definite news. It was unlikely that Skoplje would fall, and very little use loitering in hopes. The colonel advised Jan to get his party out by the best route possible, and we took a grateful farewell.

Coming back to the camp Jan had a nasty half-hour. Should we go by Mitrovitza, or should we go by Berane? In the first case there was the long route, the difficulty of getting lodgings and of transport, the risk of falling behind the Serbian General Staff, and of finding the country bare, the high passes of Petch and the snow; Willett was only just recovering from a bad chill, West's arm had grown much worse, and had been operated on in the morning by a doctor with a pair of scissors faute de mieux—a most agonizing process. On the other hand, the Berane route was unknown to the authorities, and might have fallen so into decay that it was useless; we did not know where the Austro-Germans were, and they might be already on the outskirts of Novi Bazar; if any of us fell ill we should certainly be captured. It was a toss up. Finally he asked the others. They said—

"What you think best. You know the country."

We finally decided to go to Novi Bazar and make inquiries. If there were no road we could go thence to Mitrovitza, and would only have lost a day. If, as the colonel said, the bridge was washed away, we could probably ford the river.

Then to bed. One could not sleep really well, for the rugs did not give sufficient warmth, and the chill striking up from the ground penetrated everything.

Took the road to Novi Bazar next day. Miss Brindley joined us with a parcel of blankets and a knapsack and a mackintosh lent by a friend. She had lost her boots, or the local cobbler had lost them, but most appropriately a motor had arrived and on it was a pair of new soldier's boots unclaimed. She took them, cut the feet of a pair of indiarubber Wellingtons and pulled them over her stockings, and put a smile on her face which never came off in spite of any fatigue.

Hilder and Antonio went off with Sir Ralph's box. The "Stobarts" wished us good luck, and away we clattered over the rickety bridge, up through the town and out into the Novi Bazar road. The surface was fairly good, and the day turned brilliant. We had left the six sisters and their luggage behind with their respective units, and so had four extra waggons to carry our stuff. We rattled along cheerily, only dismounting at the occasional patches of mud which we met.

After a while we decided to lunch. We came to a cafe and halted.

"Have you coffee?" we asked.

"Ima."

"Will you give us all coffee?"

"We have no sugar," said the hostess; so we had no coffee.

We got out a tin of biscuits and lunched on those. As we were passing them round a soldier stopped.

"What are you selling those for?" he asked, under the impression that we were a travelling shop. We gave him some, to his great astonishment.

On we went again. Down below us in a field the corporal spotted a hayrick. Like stage villains the coachmen clambered down the hill, each with a rope—spoil from the discarded tents. They attacked the rick and soon nothing was left. As they staggered back, each hidden beneath an enormous load of hay—looking themselves like walking ricks—a Turk in black and white clothes ran down from above furiously brandishing a three-pronged fork.

"What are you doing?" he yelled.

The corporal stood stiffly and said—

"It is war. We are the State. It is of no value for you to preach."

The owner went dolefully down the hill, and stood looking at where his stack had been.

"We have again prevented those Germans from stealing good hay," said the corporal with satisfaction. Each cart looked not unlike a hay wain returning from the fields, and we scrambled up on to the top feeling like children in the autumn. After we had gone a mile we began to wonder why we had given the owner no compensation: evidently the corporal's influence was turning us into scoundrels.

At last the broken bridge. Only a shallow stream across which our carts splashed joyfully. On the other side was a small church with a beautiful blue tower. And soon we were in the outskirts of Novi Bazar, the most ordinary town of the Sanjak, combining the dull parts of Plevlie with the dull parts of Ipek. There was a stream down the middle of the road, in which some of the inhabitants were washing, while one sat on his haunches holding up a small looking-glass with one hand and shaving himself.

We bustled off to the mayor's office. Found him as usual in a back street in a shabby office up shaky wooden stairs. The mayor knew nothing of any road to Berane; so baffled, we again found the street. We went to the shabby Turkish shops of the bazaar and inquired.

"Certainly," said the shopkeepers, "a good path to Berane, and not high. No; not so high as that by Ipek."

We returned to the mayor's office. He seemed little inclined to consent, and demanded to see our pass. Jo again made her little—but so useful—speech. The mayor called in an Albanian. After a long consultation the mayor said that he had no horses.

"Then we will take our carriage horses," said we.

"There are no roads for carriages," said the mayor.

"Then we will take the horses without the carriages."

The mayor called in two more men: they considered the pass once more.

"You may have the carriages two days more," he decided at last. "Go to Tutigne. As far as that the carriages will travel. There are many horses there, and you can get pack ponies."

Coming out we ran into Colonel Stajitch of Valievo. The colonel is a Serbian gentleman, fine figure, beautiful face, and white hair and moustaches. He greeted us, asked us our news. We told him of our projected journey. He became thoughtful and after a while said good-bye. We took our convoy through the town to a field on the outskirts where we pitched the camp.

We borrowed the corporal's axe and hewed for some time in a thorn hedge, without getting much profit but many prickles, and finally decided to take a paling from a Turkish cemetery, for there was no one about.

Soon we had a jolly fire, and Cutting and Whatmough got to work on the food. Dr. Holmes turned up. He had arrived the day before and had found lodgings in an inn. West's arm was still inflamed and very painful. The doctor looked at it and said it needed more incision. West and Miss Brindley went off with him.

An old ragamuffin wandered up with a loaf of maize bread. He offered it to the corporal for three dinars; but the corporal took it away and gave him two. The old man made a great outcry. We demanded the cause. The unlawful corporal was again hailed to justice, his corporalship seeming more valueless than ever, and to give him a lesson we bought the bread for three dinars, for it was worth it.

We suddenly discovered that none of the Red Cross men had papers or passes. What was to be done? We were conniving at an almost unlawful expedition, and Jan was very doubtful if we could cross the Montenegrin frontier. But after a consultation we decided to bluff it into Montenegro if necessary, and then telegraph to Cettinje to help us out.

It was now dark and West and Miss Brindley had not come back. So Jan and Jo went off to look for them. We searched two cafes—meeting again with our old acquaintance the schoolmaster from Nish—plunged into all sorts of odd corners, and at last met Colonel Stajitch in a restaurant. He greeted us.

"I have a great favour to ask," he said diffidently. "If I might I should like to give to you a little appendix. It is my son. He is seventeen, but is very big for his age. If the Austrians catch him I do not know what will become of him."

We were introduced to the boy, and at once consented.

"I will decide for certain to-morrow," said the colonel. "Can I meet you at seven o'clock?"

We hunted once more for West. Ran him to earth at last in the Hotel de Paris. This hotel could perhaps have existed in the Butte de Montmartre, but even there it would have been considered a disgrace. We had to pass through a long room crammed with sleeping soldiery, stepping across them to get to the door opposite. Every window was tight shut, and after one horrified gulp we held our breath till we reached the interior courtyard. Here, too, were sleeping men, and all along the balconies and passages were more.

We found Holmes' room. West was there, rather white and just recovering from the anaesthetic. We sat down. Dr. Holmes had thought of coming with us, but the authorities had looked suspiciously at his passes, which were made out to Mitrovitza, so he decided to go on there. We wished that he had come, as a doctor would have been a great comfort had we really needed him.

After a rest West was well enough to go back to the camp.



CHAPTER XX

THE UNKNOWN ROAD

As we stood around the camp fire drinking our cocoa a queer ragged old Albanian crept up and watched us with a smile. He was the owner of the house near by, whose palings we had almost looted. We offered him cocoa, which he liked immensely; and asked him about the road to Tutigne. He said—

"There is a road for carts—I know it."

"Will you show it us?" said Jo.

He gave a wild yell and ran away, waving a stick.

"What ——?!!!! ——"

It was nothing, only the pigs had invaded his cabbage patch. He came back later with an enormous apple, which he presented to Jo.

"Have you apples for sale?"

He shook his head, saying "Ima, ima."

We bought several pounds, arranged with him to guide us later to the carriage road, and hurried into the town to buy provisions.

There we met Colonel Stajitch. "Will you take my boy?"

"Delighted. Are his papers in order?"

The mayor hereupon turned up, and the colonel's face grew longer as they conversed.

"The mayor cannot give me the necessary permits without Government sanction," he said. "I must get it from Rashka by telephone. It will take an hour. Can you wait?"

We spent the time shopping. Each shop looked as empty as if it had been through a Saturday night's sale. One had elderly raisins, another had a few potatoes. We found some onions, bought another cooking pot and kitchen necessaries, and packed them in the carts which had arrived in the town. Nobody would take paper money unless we bought ten francs' worth. After waiting an hour and a half we hunted down the colonel. The telephone official told us he had got leave from the Government. At last we found him in the mayor's office, bristling with papers and the passport.

"I have got you an armed policeman as escort," he said, waving the papers, "and the boy has a good horse, twenty pounds in gold, and twenty in silver."

We found the boy waiting with the carriages. He wore a strange little brown cashmere Norfolk jersey and very superior black riding breeches. Dressed more romantically he would have made an ideal Prince for an Arabian Nights' story. His father accompanied us until our Albanian guide announced—

"Here begins the carriage road."

Their parting must have been a hard thing. The father could not tell how his son's expedition would end, and the son was leaving his father to an unknown fate. They embraced, smiling cheerily, and the boy rode on ahead of us all, blowing his nose and cursing his horse.

In many places the "carriage road" was no road at all. The carts lurched and bumped over rivers, boulders, fields, and the inevitable mud. Several times we had to jump on our carts as they dragged us over deep and rapid rivers. After three hours we stopped at a farm, our mounted policeman called out the owners and autocratically ordered two of the young men to accompany us as guides and guards.

They came, bearing their guns, white fezzed, white clothed, black braided youths with shaven polls and flashing teeth. We began to climb, and for hours and hours we toiled upwards. The carriages lumbered painfully far behind us, led by their elderly and panting drivers.

"If this is what they call a good and easy road," we thought, "it would have been better to harness four horses to each cart, and to have left five carts behind."

The horses came from the plain of Chabatz, and had probably never seen a hill in their lives.

"These horses will die," said the corporal; but he seemed more interested in hunting for water for himself than in the struggles of the poor beasts.

One of our Albanian guides was overwhelmed with the beauty of Cutting's silver-plated revolver.

"How much did you pay for it?"

"Thirty francs," said Cutting, shooting at the scenery.

Jan produced his automatic, but the Albanian scorned it as one would turn from a lark to a bird of Paradise. He turned the glittering object over lovingly, thought, felt in his pockets, drew out a green and red knitted purse, and shook his head.

"I will give you thirty francs."

But Cutting wasn't on the bargain. He pocketed the treasure again, and we plodded on.

"How far are we from Tutigne?" we asked.

"Four hours," said a dignified Albanian, who had joined our party.

"No, two hours," said another.

"Three at most," corrected a third.

The first man lifted his hand. "I say four hours, and it is four hours. With such horses as these we crawl."

We reached a desolate tableland at dusk. Here the horses halted for some while. With the halt came a sudden desire to stay there for good. It seemed as if we should never reach Tutigne. The evening brought with it chilly damp breezes, and the footsore company was getting quite disheartened.

"Let us camp here," said everybody.

But the policeman had a mailbag to deliver that night, and we had to push on. Experienced as we were in Serbian roads, never had we seen such mud. Down, down sank our feet, and we could only extract them again clinging to the carts with the sound of a violent kiss. We tried to escape it by climbing into the thick brushwood, only to find it again, stickier and more slippery, while the bushes grasped us with thorny arms and athletically switched our faces. A moonless darkness came upon us and we had to walk just behind the carriages, peering at the square yard of road illuminated by candles in our penny lanterns.

Occasionally a voice greeted us. We asked how far Tutigne was.

"About an hour," was the invariable answer all along the line.

But the dignified guide was right. After four hours we reached the main street, arriving slowly to the music of incredible clatter as our little carts leapt and jolted over hundreds of big pointed stones laid carefully side by side—Tutigne's concession to Macadam.

There were faint lights in some of the little wooden houses. Others stood dark and unfriendly. We stopped. Curses filled the air. An ox-cart was lying right across the road. After shouting himself hoarse the policeman woke up an old man in a house near by—the owner. He rheumatically grumbled in his doorway; so the gendarme called our Albanians, and in two twos they had turned the cart upside down in a ditch, saying—

"It serves you right."

Voices sounded in the darkness. The carriages lurched on. Presently they left the road and turned on to grass, they seemed to be leaving the village behind. We did not know where they were going, and were so tired that we did not care, if only they would get somewhere and stop, which at last they did. We jumped off into a squelch of water.

"Good heavens, this won't do!"

We searched the whole field for a dry spot, but though it was a hillside, it was a swamp. We chose the least marshy place and built a fire.

"Where is the mayor?" we asked of the strange faces dimly to be seen in the light of our fire.

They pointed to two cottage window lights. We went towards them, at last realizing our proximity by stumbling into a dung-heap and knocking against a pig-stye. There was a narrow stairway, and above it a big landing. A man followed and knocked at a door for us.

The mayor appeared—a little man—square in face, hair, beard and figure.

We explained ourselves and showed our letter. He looked grave at our demand for horses; said we would talk it over on the morrow, and sympathized about the swampy field.

"Would you like to sleep here on the floor?" he said, showing us a clean-looking office. "We regret we have no beds."

We were delighted. His wife, who had gone to bed, appeared in a striped petticoat and a second one worn as a shawl.

"The tables shall be moved and the stove lit," she said. "It will be ready in a few minutes."

We picked our way back to the fire, avoiding the dung-heap and pig-stye, whereby we nearly fell into a cesspool. Cocoa was brewing, one card-house had been erected as a shelter for some of our things. The drivers were crouched round their own fire cooking something. It was difficult to find our bundles in the carts as one only recognized them by the drivers. We climbed in feeling about by the light of a match. Jo found a foot in one.

"How can we find things with people lying on them?" she said to the foot.

It remained immobile; she pulled it—no response. She tugged it. A face lifted itself at the far end of the cart. It was the corporal's wife lying on her own possessions, very tired and rather cross. Jo patted her remorsefully and decamped.

We must have looked like a regiment of gnomes bearing forbidden treasure as we hobbled through the darkness, laden with our bundles of blankets. The light in the office nearly blinded us, and the heat from the stove struck us like a violent blow. The mayor, his wife, two hurriedly dressed children and several other people received us. There was an awkward silence. Jo murmured in the background—

"It is manners here to go up, shake hands, and say one's name."

Very uncomfortably everybody did so, one by one. Another silence. We racked our brains—the weather—our journey—the war. One had nothing sensible to say about anything. Jo asked the children's age. The information was supplied. Silence. We filled the gap by smiling. At last the mayor's wife said we must be worn out, and they all left us.

The mayor crept back. "Don't talk about the military situation," he said; "if these Turks knew it they might kill us all." Then he shut the door.

We flew to a window and opened it, changed our stockings, hung wet boots and socks over the stove, ate bully beef, and rolled up, pillowing our heads on our little sacks—thirteen sleepy people.

The mayor's wife opened the door an inch and peeped at us as we lay, looking, indeed, more like a jumble sale than anything. Mawson wore a Burglar cap tied under his chin, and a collection of khaki mufflers, looking equipped for a Channel crossing. Miss Brindley's head was tied up in a bandana handkerchief; Jo's in a purple oilsilk hood; others shared mackintosh sheets and blankets; West pulled his Serbian cap right down to his mouth. Jan put on the white mackintosh dressing-coat, over that his greatcoat, then he spread out a red, green, yellow and black striped Serbian rug, rolled up in it with many contortions, and pushed his feet into a tent bag. Blease in a Balaklava, showing nose like an Arctic explorer, got into a black oilskin, one corner of which had been repaired with a large yellow patch, he then rolled up in oddments collected from the company, as his own overcoat had been stolen, and bound it all together by tying the many coloured knitted rug around him, after putting the lamp out inadvertently with his head.

In the morning we interviewed the mayor. He read and reread the letter from the Novi Bazar mayor, took an interest in the social supremacy of Stajitch's father, who was a man of birth, but said he had no horses.

Jo appealed to his better feelings. He scratched his head.

"Yes, truly one must try to help the English," he said, but looked very glum.

"I will have the neighbouring hamlets searched for horses."

We thanked him and wandered into the village cafe. An old man with black sprouting eye-brows a la Nick Winter, was sitting there. He had walked for five days, eating only apples.

"Very good food too," he said. "Here is my luggage."

He pointed to a knotted handkerchief containing a tiny loaf of bread which he had just acquired. His goal was a monastery in Montenegro, where he said they would house and feed him for the winter in exchange for a little work.

At 11.30 three horses were brought. Three more were promised, so we reluctantly decided to start the next day. There was nothing to do.

Our carriages went. We gave the corporal a card-house to take back to Rashka with little faith that he would not try to stick to it. He had not returned the boots to their owner, so we took them from him and gave them to their rightful owner, and handed over to the corporal a spare pair of our own boots to keep him honest.

At dawn Stajitch, who had been sleeping in style upon a friend's table, came to say we had six horses, but a professor had turned up in the night and was coming with us. He had been so exhausted with the walk that his policeman had carried him most of the way. Not pleased, we went to inspect him. He was small, corpulent, and was sitting with clasped woolly gloves, goloshed feet, and a diffident smile.

He explained to us that he was delicate, and as he was no walker it would be necessary for him to ride one horse. So we packed our food, sacks, blankets, mackintoshes and the card-house as best we could on the remaining five horses.

No sooner had we left the village, and all signs of road or bridle path, with a new policeman and two or three ragged Albanians, than one of the horses broke loose and began to dance—first the tango, then the waltz. The pack, which was but insecurely attached, stood the tango, but with the waltz a bag of potatoes swung loose at the end of a rope, its gyroscopic action swinging the horse quicker and quicker until it was spinning on one toe. Then the girths broke, saddle and all came to the ground. The brute looked round as if saying "That's that," and cantered off, followed slowly by the professor on horseback. We called. He appeared to take no notice. At last he turned round saying—