We bounded along.  The brakes did not work, the carriage banged against the horses’ hocks, who, in turn, leapt forwards, and our four heads met in a resounding thump in the centre of the waggon; after which Jo insisted that the widow should turn her hatpins to the other side.  The widow’s luggage cast loose and hit us in cunning places when we were not looking.  The cart rocked and heaved, and we expected it to turn over.  There were other waggons on the road—­heavy, slow ox carts, exporting wool or importing benzine or ammunition, with wheels of any shape bar round—­some were even octagonal; and as they filed along they gave forth sounds reminiscent of Montenegrin song, a last wail from the hospitable little country whose borders we were leaving behind us.

The driver promised us a better road further on; but the better road never came, and we hung on waiting for something to break and give us relief.  There were hints, it is true, unfinished hints:  some day men will be able to travel in comfort from Mitrovitza to Ipek, but the day is not yet.  It is strange how the human frame gets used to things, and we grew to believe that our driver not only liked, but joyed in each extra bang and jolt—­collected them as it were—­for certainly he never avoided anything, though occasionally he wound at the brake, but that was only for show, because he knew that it did not work.

We reached Mitrovitza at dark with bones unbroken, and rattled down a road with vague white Turkish houses upon one side, and a muddy looking stream reflecting dull lights on the other.  One last lurid lunge, we leapt across a drain and broke a trace bar, but too late, we had arrived.

The Hotel Bristol was full—­why are there so many hotels in Serbia named Bristol?—­but we were received by a stupid-looking maid at the Kossovo, and were given a paper to sign, saying who we were.  Then down to the restaurant, where we had a beefsteak which was a dream, and back to bed, which was a nightmare, for all night long we bounced and banged and bruised our journey over again, and awoke quite exhausted.

The first impression of a town which is entered by moonlight is usually difficult to recover on the following morning, it is often like the glimpse of a pretty girl caught, say, in a theatre lobby, and the charm may never be rewoven.  So it was with Mitrovitza, which in daylight seemed just a dull, ordinary Turkish town.  The Prefect was a bear, and sent us on a long unnecessary walk to the station, a mile and a half.  Sitting on the road was the dirtiest beggar we had yet seen.  As we came towards her she chanted our praises, bowing before us and kissing the dust; but she aroused only feelings of disgust and getting nothing, she turned to curses till we were out of sight.  The chief imports at the station seemed to be cannons and maize; the only exports, millstones, which looked like and seemed almost as palatable as Serbian bread.  We did our business without trouble, and coming back the beggar praised us once more till we had passed, then hurled even louder curses after us.