[Illustration:  THE IPEK PASS IN WINTER.]

But it became difficult even for us to admire landscape, for breakfast had disappeared within us, and lunch seemed far away, so once more recourse to the “compressed luncheon.”  There are three stages in the taste of the “Tabloid.”  Stage one, when it smacks of glue; stage two, when it has a flavour of inferior beef tea, say 11.30 a.m.; stage three, when it resembles nothing but the gravy of the most delicious beef steak.  That is about 2.30, and your lunch some hours in retard.  We had reached stage three, and even Jo succumbed to the charms of the “Tab.”

Famished we came to a cafe.

“Eggs?” we gasped to the host.

“Nema” (haven’t got any), he replied.

“Milk?”

“Nema.”

“Cheese?” crescendo.

“Nema.”

“Bread?” fortissimo.

“Nema.”

Despairing we swallowed three more luncheon tablets each and whined for tea.  Ramases, who seemed to get along on tea alone, promised us a well-stocked cafe in an hour and a half.

The second cafe was purely Albanian.  We climbed up some rickety stairs into a room which had—­strange to relate—­a fireplace.  About the room was a sleeping dais where three or four black and white ruffians were couched.  There was a little window with a deep seat into which we squeezed and loudly demanded eggs, bread and cheese.  An old woman all rags and tatters came in and squeezed up alongside, where she crouched, spinning a long wool thread and staring up into Jo’s face.  Several cats were lounging about the room, but one came close and began to squirm as though she were “setting” a mouse.  Suddenly she pounced, seized the old woman’s food bag from her feet, swept it on to the floor, and disappeared with it beneath the dais, where all the rest of the cats followed.  The old woman, who had been plying distaff and spindle the while, let out a yell of fury and half disappeared beneath the platform.  We all roared with laughter, while beneath us the cats spat and the old woman cursed, beating about with the handle of her distaff till she had rescued her dinner.  She backed out with the bag, sat down again and started spinning once more as though nothing had happened.

Beyond this cafe the track became very stony and rough.  We passed a typical couple.  The man was carrying a light bag full of bottles, while the women had on her back a huge wooden chest, in which things rattled and bumped as she stumped along.

Jo looked at her with pity.  “That’s heavy,” she said.

The woman stared stupidly and answered nothing; but the man smiled and said—­

“Yes, heavy.  Bogami.”