We had come back to this little world after seven weeks’ wandering, and almost immediately Jan had gone off to Kragujevatz with a broken motor.

While he was away Jo got letters from England and Paris, which made her realize that things were rather in a mess, and we should have to go home.  We had left England intending to stay in Serbia three months, and had been then nearly nine.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XV

SOME PAGES FROM MR. GORDON’S DIARY

OCTOBER 2ND.  Got a wire from Kragujevatz to say that the motor hood is ready and that we must go over to get it fitted.  We cleaned and oiled the car, and at two ran it down the hill, but it would not start.  Found two sparking plugs cracked and the magneto very weak.  When we had fixed it up it was too late.  Four a.m. to-morrow morning.

OCTOBER 3RD.  Started in the dark, Mr. Berry, Sister Hammond, Sava, I, and a female relation of some minister or other who wanted to go to Kralievo.  The motor working badly, as it is impossible to get the proper spare parts.  Three young owls were sitting in the middle of the road scared by our headlights; we hit one, the other two flew away.  Sava and I stopped and tinkered at the old machine for about an hour, changed all the sparking plugs again, after which she went better.  We reached Kralievo without incident, where we cast loose the female relation.  From Kralievo passed over the Morava, which was pretty floody and had knocked the road about a bit.  The road led right through the Shumadia country, where the first revolts of the Serbian nation against their Turkish oppressors were engendered.  We passed the old Serbian churchyard.  I never passed by without going in.  These queer old tombstones all painted in days when pure decoration had a religious appeal, these tattered red and white and black banners lend such a gay air to death; these swords and pistols and medals carved into the stone seem almost carrying a bombast to heaven.  On one side of each tombstone is the name of its owner, preceded by the legend, “Here lies the slave of God.”  Do slaves love their masters?

When we passed this road in the winter, black funeral flags hung from almost every hut, and even now the rags still flap in the breeze.  A Serbian boy, clad in dirty cottons, shouted to us, making gesticulations.  We slowed down and stopped.

“Bombe,” he cried.  “Aeropla-ane.  Pet,” he held up five fingers, “y jedan je bili slomile.  Vidite shrapnel.”

He pointed.  We saw a quiet, early autumn landscape, the blue sky slightly flecked with thin horizontal streaks of cloud.  Any scene less warlike could not have been imagined.

“Vidite tamo,” he cried once more.

Straining our eyes one could just see, between the lowest strata of cloud, a series of small white round clouds floating.

“Shrapnel,” said Sava, pointing.