First a Belgian doctor, from Dr. Lilias Hamilton’s unit in Podgoritza.  He said Mrs. G. was also in the town, and that the others were all coming shortly.  Then we met a young staff officer from Uzhitze, who was noted for his bravery.  The train came in and we stumbled up to it in the dark.  There was a crowd of women about the steps in difficulty with heavy bags.  Jan ran forward to help one.  She turned round.  It was a sister from Dechani.  The rest turned round.  It was the whole Russian mission from Dechani.

We proceeded along the corridor, and ran into two men.  We mutually began to apologize.

“Hello,” we said, “how did you get here?” They were two Americans we had met in Salonika.

We got our seats and went out of the train by the other door.  As we passed the compartment we saw a familiar face.  It was the little French courier.

“Quel pays,” he said, bounding up.  “Et les Bulgars, quoi?”

“Good Lord,” said Jan.  “Let’s go out and get some fresh air.”

The only people lacking to complete the scene were the Sirdar and Dr. Clemow.

A doctor who had just arrived from Salonika asked us to look after four English orderlies who, new to the country, were travelling to the Red Cross mission at Vrntze.  With them were two trim, short-skirted, heavy booted, Belgian nurses, who were going to a Serbian field hospital.

The train crawled.  At times it was necessary to hold one’s breath to see if we were moving at all.  It was always possible that the Bulgars had blown up a bridge or so.  One could imagine an anxious driver, his eyes fixed on the line in front, looking for Bulgarian comitaj.

The travellers were restless.  Our little French courier stood in the corridor looking fiercely at the black night; his back view eloquently expressive of his opinion of the Balkans.

Later on we all slept.  A frightful braying sound awoke us.

No, not Bulgars—­only the band.  Same band, same station, same hour, same awful incompetence.

So the princess had nothing to do with it!

Trainloads bristling with ragged soldiers passed us—­open truck-loads of them, carriage tops covered with sleeping men, some were clinging to the steps and to the buffers.

Nish station had lost its sleepy air.  Every one was energetically doing everything all wrong.  The four orderlies and the two Belgian sisters were minus their passports.  Some one had taken them away.  These were run to earth in the station-master’s office, and as the party had no idea where to go, we suggested they should come with us to the rest-house.

The first person we met there was Dr. Clemow.

“Have you got the Sirdar with you?” we asked.

He answered that he had brought Paul, the young Montenegrin interpreter, with him.  The English units in Montenegro had been recalled, and he had come to Nish to try to rescind the order for his unit.