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—­

“The horse will not.”

Jo leapt in the air kicking.

“Do that with your heels,” she said.

But we had to send the policeman to help him.  He rode hour by hour, hitting his beast with a bent umbrella, and lifting two fat hands to heaven.