“No, no,” he said, “you had better have four.”

We went back joyfully to the hotel.  Cutting or one of the others had been exploring and had gotten twenty eggs.  The hotel people consented to cook them.  While we were outside looking at the mosques and wondering when the horses were coming, the professor walked into the bar-room.

“Ah,” said he, “eggs.”

“They belong to the English,” said the hostess.

“Good,” said the professor, and swallowed four.

Just then we returned.

“But there are only sixteen eggs,” said we.

“The professor has eaten the others,” said the woman, pointing.

In a minute the professor wished that he had not.  Jan took the opportunity of saying a few things which had been boiling within him.  He accused the wretched man of interference in assuming control of the expedition; he said that he was a mere hanger-on, and a useless and selfish one at that.

The professor wilted.  He made a thousand apologies, and finally ran off wringing his fat hands, found with great difficulty four more eggs and cast them into the boiling water.

“There,” he said, “you can have your four eggs.”

“It’s not the eggs,” answered Jan, “it’s you.”

Jo was roaring with laughter.  Some of the morning she had been in a woman’s house listening to one of the policeman’s tales of the professor, and soon the whole village was rocking with amusement at “Teshko.”

At last the horses arrived—­six miserable-looking beasts, but this time all had shoes.  One was commandeered by the professor.

“He is the greatest philosopher in all Serbia,” whispered an official to Jan.

“Ah, I guessed there must be some reason,” said Jan.

We had a send-off, all the village came to see us go away.  The day was a repetition of our previous experiences.  A long tramp in the mud.  At the top of the highest pass we had yet reached was an old wooden blockhouse.

We came upon it unexpectedly, rounding a corner.  Montenegrin soldiers were cooking at a wood fire; but we were surprised to find all round the square log cabin deep rifle pits, the best we had yet seen in Serbia.

“Good Lord, what are those for?” said Jan.

“This is an old Turkish post,” said the sergeant.  “It has been kept up.  We don’t know why.”

We walked off meditating.  Montenegrins do not squander soldiers without reason; and then one’s mind went back to the four armed guards who were accompanying us.

We discovered the truth later, let us tell the story here.

Berane, to which we were descending, was once a populous growing Turkish town.  After the Balkan war it fell into Montenegrin territories.  The Montenegrins chased out all the Turkish landowners, who fled to these mountains, where they formed bands of brigands and caused no little consternation and trouble to the authorities, who could not catch them.  The authorities passed a little Act, reinstating the landowners in their territories; but when an attempt was made to put the Act into force, it was found that the authorities themselves were in possession of the lands.  What was to be done?  The blockhouse was the solution.