A couple of days after my arrival at Uibanya, my friend F——­ kindly arranged a little expedition into Servia, with the object of making the ascent of the Stierberg, a mountain of respectable elevation, commanding very fine views.  Our guide was the postmaster of Plavishovitza, who professed a knowledge of the country round about.  We drove down to the Danube, and there crossed the river in a primitive “dug-out,” and almost immediately commenced the ascent of the Stierberg.  It became quite dark by the time we got half-way up the mountain; this we were prepared for, having made arrangements for camping out the night.  We had brought with us an ample store of provisions, not forgetting our plaids.  The heat was so great when we started that we dispensed with coats, and even waistcoats, and went on rejoicing in the cool freedom of our shirt-sleeves.  Each wore a broad leather waist-belt, stuck round with revolvers and bowie-knives.  I believe we looked like a couple of the veriest brigands.  Had we only been spotted by a “correspondent,” I make little doubt that we should have been telegraphed as “atrocities” to the London evening papers.

The more civilisation closes round one, the more enjoyable is an occasional “try back” into barbarism.  This feeling made the mere fact of camping out seem delightful.  Our first care was to select a suitable spot; we found a clearing that promised well, and here we made a halt.  We deposited our batterie de cuisine, arranged our plaids, and then proceeded to make a fire with a great lot of dried sticks and logs of wood.  The fire was soon crackling and blazing away in grand style, throwing out mighty tongues of flame, which lit up the dark recesses of the forest.

Now came the supper, which consisted of robber-steak and tea.  I always stuck to my tea as the most refreshing beverage after a long walk or ride.  I like coffee in the morning before starting—­good coffee, mind; but in the evening there is nothing like tea.  The robber-steak is capital, and deserves an “honourable mention” at least:  it is composed of small bits of beef, bacon, and onion strung alternately on a piece of stick; it is seasoned with pinches of paprika and salt, and then roasted over the fire, the lower end of the stick being rolled backwards and forwards between your two palms as you hold it over the hot embers.  It makes a delicious relish with a hunch of bread.

Our camp-fire and its surroundings formed a romantic scene.  We had three Serbs with us as attendants, and there was F——­ and myself, all seated in a semicircle to windward of the smoke.  The boles of the majestic beech-trees surrounding us rose like stately columns to support the green canopy above our heads, and in the interstices of the leafy roof were visible spaces of sky, so deeply blue that the hue was almost lost in darkness; but out of the depths shone many a bright star in infinite brilliancy.  The scene was picturesque in the highest degree.  The flickering firelight, our Serbians in their quaint dresses moving about the gnarled roots and antlered branches of the trees, upon which the light played fitfully, and the mystery of that outer rim of darkness, all helped to impress the fancy with the charm of novelty.