When Jan awoke it was dark, and he was with difficulty rousing Jo when suddenly a voice howled through the keyhole that the horses were waiting.  Jan grabbed his watch—­5 a.m.; but the horses had been ordered for six.  Hastily chewing dry biscuit, Jan jumped into his clothes and ran down.  There was a small squat youth with a flabby Mongolian face hovering between the yard door and the inn, and Jan following him discovered three horses saddled and waiting.  He hastily ordered white coffee to be prepared, and ran up again to hurry Jo and to pack.  He rushed down again to pay the bill, but found that the Montenegrin Red Cross had charged itself with everything, very generously, so he ran up once more to nag at Jo.  The secretary, whom we called “the shadow,” had not appeared, so we inquired from the squint-eyed youth, received many “Bogamis” as answer, but nothing definite; so we decided, as it was now past six, that he had changed his mind and had sent this chinee-looking fellow, whom we named “Bogami,” in his place.

Jan’s horse was like an early “John” drawing of a slender but antiquated siren, all beautiful curves.  Jo’s would in England long ago have taken the boat to Antwerp; her saddle stood up in a huge hump behind and had a steeple in front, and was covered by what looked like an old bearskin hearthrug in a temper, one stirrup like a fire shovel was yards too long, the other far too short, and were set well at the back.

“What queer horses!” we remarked.

“Bogami,” said Bogami; “when there are no horses these are good horses, Bogami.”

“Where is the secretary?”

“Bogami nesnam” (don’t know).

From Uzhitze we had good horses, from Prepolji moderate, now these; imagination staggered at what we should descend to if we did a fourth lap to Cettinje, for instance, but we climbed up.  Jo with her queerly placed stirrups perched forward something like a racing cyclist.  Bogami’s horse was innocent of garniture, save for a piece of chain bound about its lower jaw, but he slung his great coat over the saw edge of its backbone and leapt on.  He must have had a coccyx of cast iron.  We had to kick the animals into a walk—­there were fifty kilometres to go.

After a while we began to wonder if it would not be quicker to get off and foot it, but we did catch up and eventually pass a Red Cross Turk.  We saw a soldier striding ahead.  By kicks and shouts we raised a sprint along the level road; we drew even with him, and then began a race; on the uphills we beat him, on the downhills he caught up and passed in front.  He was a taciturn fellow, and save that he was going to Fochar we learnt nothing about him.  On a long uphill we gained a hundred yards, and by supreme efforts held our gains.  He eventually disappeared from view, and we were rejoicing at our speed when we realized that the telegraph wires were no longer with us—­one can always find the nearest way by following the telegraph, for governments do not waste wire.  Jan looked for them and found them streaming away to the left, and among them, well up on the horizon, our enemy the soldier.