We were first taken to the barracks in the evening, scrambling up a stony hill.  The building looked like the disreputable ruins of somebody’s “Folly.”  Half the roof was off, and the walls were full of holes.  We stumbled up some black steps and entered a huge dark barn with four log fires down the centre of the room.

Round these were huddled crowds of men.  They pulled some rough planks out of a hole in the wall to let in the sunset light, and the icy Borra rushed in, playing with the smoke and setting the men to coughing.  Here and there on the ground were long mounds, covered completely with rough hand-woven rugs.  These were the invalids, who moaned as the rugs were pulled off their faces.  A great many had malaria; others had, as far as we could see, very bad pleurisy; and one old Albanian with rattling breath was huddled up in a far corner, too miserable to speak.

Whatmough sent for a dribble of camphorated oil he had stored in his knapsack, “to cheer them up,” said he, and rubbed everybody who had pain and a cough.

“Give them hot drinks,” said Jo, in a large way.  “Milk or—­”

“Milk!  There is no milk in Medua,” said the sergeant.

“No tinned milk—­eggs to be bought?”

“Nothing, no meat; we have not even enough bread, and that is all we get.”

Very depressed, we sent them the remains of our Bovril and some tins of milk from the tiny hotel store, and bought the last three eggs in the place.

“Can’t you send for more?” we asked.

“The hens are five hours away,” said the proprietor, and didn’t see why he should send for eggs even if we paid heavily for them.  He had malaria—­and nothing mattered.

We saw our patients daily, and the ones who weren’t going to die got a little better, so this made our reputation.  People poured in from the hills around, and we were much embarrassed.  Our white-lipped waiter confided to each member of the party that he had a lump on his knee.

Every one became very busy and put off looking at it.  We discussed it.

What could a lump on the knee be which did not make a busy waiter limp?  And what on earth could we do for him when he wouldn’t rest, and we were reduced to boracic powder and bismuth capsules?  We gave him a tube of quinine, though, for his next attack of malaria.

The longer we rested in San Giovanni the more hopeless seemed the chance of getting away from it.  The Serbian Government was close on our heels, and once they caught us up, there would be little left for us.  That evening we were sitting with the Frenchmen, it was Monday.  They, too, were depressed, and at last Tweedledum said—­

“We shall never reach Paris, we shall be here for ever and ever.”

“Oh,” said Jan, rashly, “I think we ought to be home in a week.”

Dum put on the superior French air, which is aggravating even in a nice man.

“Vous croyez?” he said.