We stopped at a primitive cafe and lunched.  Jo gave the children some chocolate.  They did not know what it was.  She smeared some on to the baby’s lips, and after that it sucked hard.  Soon the little girl licked hers; but the boy, more suspicious, would not eat, holding the lump till it melted into a sticky mass in his fingers.  The scenery was very beautiful.  There was a faint rain which greyed everything, and the near birches had lost all their leaves and the twigs made a reddish fog through which could be seen the slopes of the opposite hillsides.  The professor began to be worried about the rain.

“If this should turn to snow,” said he, “we would be snowed up.  And I am sure I don’t know what I should do if I were snowed up.”

We hoped to reach our halting place, which was called Vrbitza, before dark; but it was further away than our informant had said.  Once more we found ourselves floundering about in the mud of the village path after dusk.  We reached houses which we could not see; walked over slippery poles set over heaven knows what middens.  Clambered up creaky steps into the usual sort of dirty wooden room—­and there, his stockings off, warming his toes at the blaze of the wood fire, was “Eyebrows.”

We were immediately attracted by three paintings on the wall.  They were decorative designs, very beautiful.  We asked the proprietor who had done them.

“I did,” he said.

“Will you sell them?” we asked.

He giggled like a girl.  “Ah, who would buy them?” he said.

“We will.”

“I couldn’t let you have them for less than sixpence,” he said.  “You see the papers cost a penny each.”

Whatmough coveted one, so he had his choice, we took the other two.

The policeman came to tell us that rooms had been prepared in two clean houses.  We scrambled out into the dark again, stumbled along in the mud, and at last found an open square of light, through which we came into a room.

There was a red rug over half the floor, and a brasier on three legs filled with charcoal standing in the centre.  One or two of our men had already found the place and were lying on the rug.  In one corner was a large baking oven like a beehive, half in one and half in the room next door.  A wide shelf ran from the beehive almost to the open door.  There were two small windows, each about the size of this book wide open.  Jan and Jo sniffed.  Where had they smelt that odour before?

An old woman in Albanian costume crept up to Jo and caught her by the skirt.

“See,” she said, dragging her into the next room, “here is a fine bed.  The ladies will sleep with me this night.”

Jo looked at the old lady’s greasy hair and filthy raiment.

“We always sleep with our own people,” she said firmly.

The old lady protested.  All the while our men were packing the baggage beneath the shelf.  It was a tight fit, but at last it was got in.