To Krusevatz the valley broadened, and the sinking sun tinted the widening maize-tops till the fields were great squares of gold.  We had no lights in the train, and presently dusk closed down, seeming to shut each up within his or her own mind.  The hills grew very dark and distant, and on the faint rising mist the trees seemed to stand about with their hands in their pockets like vegetable Charlie Chaplins.

A junction, and a rush for tables at the little out-of-door restaurant.  In the country from which we have just come all seemed peace, but here in truth was war.  Passing shadowy in the faint lights were soldiers; soldiers crouched in heaps in the dark corners of the station; yet more soldiers and soldiers again huddled in great square box trucks or open waggons waiting patiently for the train which was four or five hours late.  There were women with them, wives or sisters or daughters, with great heavy knapsacks and stolid unexpressive faces.

While we were dreaming of this romance of war, and of the coming romance of our own tour, a little man dumped himself at our table, explained that he had a pain in his kidneys, and started an interminable story about his wife and a dog.  He was Jan’s devoted admirer, and declared that Jan had performed a successful operation upon him, though Jan is no surgeon, and had never set eyes upon the man before.

Georgevitch rescued us.  Georgevitch was fat, tall, young and genial, and was military storekeeper at Vrntze.  He was an ideal storekeeper and looked the part, but he had been a comitaj.  He had roamed the country with belts full of bombs and holsters full of pistols, he and 189 others, with two loaves of bread per man and then “Ever Forwards.”  Of the 189 others only 22 were left, and one was a patient at our hospital where we called him the “Velika Dete” or “big child,” because of his sensibility.  With Georgevitch was a dark woman with keen sparkling eyes.  Alone, this woman had run the typhus barracks in Vrntze until the arrival of the English missions.  She was a Montenegrin; no Serbian woman could be found courageous enough to undertake the task.  After struggling all the winter, she was taken ill about a fortnight after the arrival of the English.  The Red Cross Mission took care of her and she recovered.

We left our bore still talking about his wife and the dog, and fled to their table, where we chatted till our train arrived.  We found a coupe—­a carriage with only one long seat—­the exigencies of which compelled Jan to be all night with Jo’s boots on his face, and we so slept as well as we were able.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER II

NISH AND SALONIKA

To our dismay a rare thing happened—­our train was punctual, and we arrived in Nish at four o’clock.  It was cold and misty.  The station was desolate and the town asleep.  Around us in the courtyard ragged soldiers were lying with their heads pillowed on brightly striped bags.  A nice old woman who had asked Jo how old she was, what relation Jan was to her, whether they had children, and where she had learnt Serbian, suddenly lost all her interest in us and hurried off with voluble friends whose enormous plaits around their flat red caps betokened the respectable middle-class women.