“Is this Jabooka?” we asked, for we had been told to alight at Jabooka.

“No,” said the driver; “we cannot reach Jabooka to-night.  But here are fine beds, fine, fine, fine!”

We climbed in.  The rooms were whitewashed and looked all right, but there was a funny smell.  We shall know what it means a second time.  There was a crowd of American Montenegrin volunteers in the kitchen.  One gay fellow was in a bright green dressing-gown like overcoat:  he said that his wife—­a hard-featured woman who looked as if nobody loved her—­had brought his saddle horse.  We got some hard-boiled eggs and maize bread.  Maize bread is always a little gritty, for it has in its substance no binding material, but when it is well cooked and has plenty of crust is quite eatable.  French cooking is far away, however, and the bread is usually a sort of soggy, half-baked flabby paste, most unpalatable and most indigestible.  Here was the worst bread we yet had found.

They took us down a dark passage, in which huge lumps of raw meat hanging from the walls struck one’s hand with a chill, flabby caress as one passed.  In our room, four benches were arranged into a pair of widish couches; mattresses were given us and coarse hand-woven rugs.  We were then left.  But we could not sleep; somehow lice were in one’s mind, and at last Jan awoke and lit the tiny oil lamp.  He immediately slew a bug; then another; then a whopper; then one escaped; then Jo got one.  In desperation we got up, smeared ourselves with paraffin, and lay down again in a dismal distressed doze till morning.

Our driver was a dilatory dog:  we had said that we would leave at five a.m., and at six he was washing his teeth in the little stream which acted as the village sewer.  As we were waiting our green-coated friend got away on his saddle horse, with his wife walking at its tail; the other Americans climbed into a great three-horse waggon, dragged their suit-cases after them, and off they went.  We left nearer seven than six.  The air was chilly, and though there were bits of blue in the sky, the hills were floating in mist, and there was a sharp shower.  There were more groups of Americans trudging along, and also a fair number of peasants, the women, as usual, dignified and beautiful.  Very hungry we at last came to Jabooka.  A jolly woman—­we were getting away from “Pod”—­welcomed us and dragged us into the kitchen.  She asked Jo many questions, one being, “What relation is he to you, that man with whom you travel?” The fire on the floor was nearly out, but she rained sticks on to it, blew up the great central log, which is the backbone, into a blaze, and soon the smoke was pouring into our eyes and filtering up amongst the hams in the roof.  We were drinking a splendid cafe au lait when an old woman peered in at the door.

“Very beautiful Jabooka,” she said.

We agreed heartily.

“Not dear either,” she said.

We expressed surprise.