Our hotel was like that where Mr. Pickwick first met Sam Weller, a large open court with a crazy wooden balcony at the second story, and the bedrooms opening on to the balcony.  When we opened our knapsacks to get out washing materials, we found that the heat of the horse had melted all the chocolate in Jan’s, and it had run over everything.  It was a mess, but chocolate was precious, and every piece had to be rescued.  We had only been ten hours in the saddle, but we descended stiffly, and were pounced on by a foolish looking man, with a head to which Jo took immediate offence.  This fellow attached himself to us during the whole of our stay, and was an intolerable nuisance; we nicknamed him “glue pot,” and only at our moment of departure discovered that he was the mayor who had been trying to do us honour.

The next day was Sunday, and the village full of peasants.  Stiff-legged and groaning a little within ourselves we walked about the town making observations:  Turkish soldiers, Turkish policemen, Turkish recruits, but all the peasants Serb.  The country costume is different from that of the north, the perpendicular stripe on the skirt has here given way to horizontal bands of colour, and some women wear a sort of exaggerated ham frill about the waist.  The men’s waistcoats were very ornate, and much embroidery was upon their coats.

An English nurse came into the town in the afternoon.  She, a Russian girl, and an English orderly had driven from Plevlie, en route to Uzhitze.  Half-way along the wheel of their carriage had broken in pieces, so they finished the road on foot.  Curiously enough we had travelled from England to Malta with this lady, Sister Rawlins, on the same transport.  The Russian girl had been married only the day before to a Montenegrin officer, nephew of the Sirdar Voukotitch, Commander-in-Chief of the North, and she was flying back to Russia to collect her goods and furniture.

Next day as we were sketching in the picturesque main street, from the distance came the sounds of a weird wailing, drawing slowly closer and closer.

“Hurra,” thought we—­two minds with but a single, etc.,—­“a funeral—­magnificent.  Just the thing to complete the scene.”

A string of donkeys came round the corner, on either flank each animal bore a case marked with a large red cross.  Amongst the animals were donkey-boys, and it was from their lips came the dismal wailing.  Never have we seen so ragged and wretched a crew.  The boys were evidently the “unfits,” and they looked it, every face showed the wan, pallid shadow of hunger and disease.  A few old men in huge fur caps, with rifles on their backs, stumbled along, guarding the precious convoy.  “Glue pot” led us all to a large empty building, once a Turkish merchant’s store, where the cases were to be housed.  The bullock carts with the heavier packages came in in the evening, and we sent the men five litres of plum brandy to put some warmth into their miserable bodies.  This moved them once more to singing, but we think the songs sounded a little less dreary.