We talked of the war, and he related many atrocities, winding up with “Of course, England must win; but what will become of us in the meanwhile?”

That evening we had a visitor.  A very large Montenegrin in French fireman’s uniform knocked at the door.  He said his name was Nikola Pavlovitch.  He had been sent by the governor to apologise for the “trouble” Jan had had that morning with the drunken soldier.

“’E in jail now, ’e verry sorry and say if you forgive ’im, mister, ’e never touch rakia, never no more.  ’E good chap reely.  Got too much rakia this mornin’, ‘E think about Turks an’ get kinder mad some’ow.  ’E don’t know what ’e done; first thing ’e knows ’e finds ’imself in river.”

Nikola Pavlovitch was, though not an officer, the commandant of a contingent of miners from America.  The governor had told him also to offer himself as cicerone for the morrow, the cart having been ordered for our trip to Dechani.

We didn’t like cicerones and demurred.

“I kin talk for you,” he said.  But we owned to speaking Serb.

“I know all de country, kin tell you things:  bin ’ere twenty years ago.”

We saw he wanted to come, and noticed that he had a very likable face, strong features, straight kindly eyes.  We realized that he would be a very pleasant companion and arranged to meet at the stable the next day.

And so, at last, we drove in one of the queer little Serb carts we had avoided so anxiously.  A few planks nailed together and bound around with an insecure rail, four wheels slipped on to the axles with no pins to hold them, a Turkish driver dangling his legs—­such was our chariot.  Some hay was produced to improvise a seat; we bought some apples on tick, as the vendor said he had no change for our one shilling note, and off we drove.

Nikola Pavlovitch started yarning almost at once, and we never had a dull moment.  He was a comitaj once, in the old days when Turkey owned Macedonia and the Sanjak.  He said that nearly all comitaj were men of education and intelligence.  When Turkish rule became oppressive, when too many Christian girls were stolen and vanished for ever into harems, the comitaj appeared, farms were raided, minute but fierce battles were fought; but in spite of this continual supervision, occasional and mysterious murders were needed to keep down the excesses of the Turk.

Pavlovitch waved a hand towards the sullen mountains of Albania, which were on our right.

“Dose Swabs don’ tink o’ nuttin’ but killin’.  Jess ornary slaughter, Mister Jim.  Now dat Jakovitza [a town to the south] dat don’t mean nuttin but ‘blood’ in their talk, ‘lots o’ blood’ dat’s what it means.  Sure.  Dese peoples don’ respect nuttin but killin’; an’ when you’ve done in ’bout fifty other fellers you’r reckoned a almighty tough.  If you wanted to voyage dere, f’r instance, you’d ‘ave ter get a promise o’ peace, a ‘Besa’ they calls it, from one of dese tough fellers, and