At the start Jan was rather grateful for the squash, for the air was chilly; soon the damp, exposed parts of his clothing cooled to freezing point, and it was lucky that they were not more extensive.

As we rolled over the craters and crests of the—­what had once been—­stone-paved streets, the driver halted, here to buy a large loaf of bread, there to purchase smelly cheese, and finally to pick up a gold-laced officer, whom we took to be the post-guard.  The driver, who sat back to back with Jan, grumbled at him because he took up too much room.  But Jan replied that it was his own fault for not making the carriage bigger, and that his knees were not telescopic.  We received the post of Montenegro, for this was the only road out; it consisted of three letters and a circular, so we judged that Montenegrin censorship was pretty strict.

The road was flat, the surrounding country covered with little scrubby oak bushes, in and out of which ran innumerable black pigs who had long cross pieces bound to their necks to prevent them from pushing through hedges into the few maize fields.  As the miles passed Jan slowly began to dry, his temperature went up and his temper became better.  The widow, we discovered, was the relict of a Greek doctor who had died of typhus in Plevlie, and she was returning to her native land.

Presently we came to a small inn, a hut like all others, and the driver commanded us to get out.  By this time we were accustomed to the sight of nobles kissing market women relatives, and it did not surprise us to see the officer embrace the rather dirty hostess of the inn and kiss all the children; but when he took his place behind the bar and began to serve the coffee!...  It was a minute before we realized that he had not been guarding the three letters and the circular, but merely was returning home.

At the Montenegrin frontier, which was some hours on, a soldier asked us for a lift, as though he could not see that we were already bulging at all points with excess luggage; at the Serbian frontier Jan was asked for his passport, and as they did not demand that of the widow, we concluded that they imagined her to be Mrs. Gordon, and Jo and the tattered one, two handmaids.

Immediately over the frontier the road began to be Serbian, but not as Serbian as it became later on, and we reached Rudnik—­and lunch—­in good condition.  Another carriage similar to our own was here, containing a Turkish family.  The father, a great stalwart Albanian, and the son a budding priest in cerise socks.  The priest was carrying food to his carriage, and we discovered that a woman was within, stowed away at the back like the widow’s luggage, and carefully protected by two curtains, so that no eye should behold her.  Her sufferings between Rudnik and Mitrovitza can be imagined when you have heard ours.

From Rudnik we walked to ease our cramped limbs, and the road became so bad that the driver went across country to avoid it.  Here is the receipt for making a Serbian road.