The valley we entered had been very deep, but at some period had been half filled by a deposit of sand and pebble which had hardened into a crumbling rock.  We were driving over the gravelly shelf, above our head rose walls of limestone, and deep below was the river which had eaten the softer agglomerate into a hundred fantastic caverns.  All along the road we passed groups of tramping volunteers fresh from America with store clothes and suitcases; the sensible were also festooned with boots.  It was pretty cold sitting in the carriage, and it grew colder as we mounted.

At last we halted to rest the horses at a cafe.  The influence of “Pod” was heavy still.  A group of grumpy people were sitting around a fire built in the middle of the floor; they did not greet us—­which is unusual in Montenegro—­but continued the favourite Serb recreation of spitting.  In the centre of them was an old man on a chair, also expectorating, and by his side one older and scraggier, his waistcoat covered with snuff and medals, palpitated in a state of senile decay, holding in a withered hand a palmfull of snuff which he had forgotten to inhale.  There were a lot of women saying nothing and spitting.  A sour, hard-faced woman admitted that there was coffee.

Jo, trying to cheer things up a bit, said brightly—­

“Is it far to Andrievitza?”

A woman mumbled, “Far, bogami.”

Jo again:  “It is cold on the road.”

A long silence, broken with the sound of spitting, followed.  At last a woman in the darkest corner murmured—­

“Cold, bogami.”

It was like the opening of a Maeterlinckian play, but we gave it up, sipped our coffee, and when we had finished, fled outside into the cold which, after all, was warmer than these people’s welcome.  Outside we met a young man who spoke German, and as he wanted to show off, he stopped to converse.  We were joined by an older man who claimed to be his father.  The father was really a jolly old boy.  He said his son was a puny weakling, but as for himself he never had had a doctor in his life.  So Jan tried his mettle with a cigar.  An officer, a filthy old peasant in the remains of a battered uniform, joined the group, but he was not charming; however, Jan offered him a cigarette.  The old yokel rushed on his fate.  He said—­

“Cigarettes are all very well; but I would rather have one of those you gave to the other fellow.”

The road wound on and up in the usual way, rain came down at intervals, and it grew colder and colder.  At last we extracted all our spare clothes from the knapsack and put them on.  We reached the top of the pass and began to rattle down the descent on the further side, and we kept our spirits up, in the growing gloom, by singing choruses:  “The old Swanee river” and “Uncle Ned.”

We pulled up at dusk at a dismal hovel, on piles, with rickety wooden stairs leading to a dimly lighted balcony over which fell deep wooden eaves.