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.