ly threw flowers at us. As we left Bi[vs]evo the men and women
high above us and the women in the boat were waving their hands; some of
them were singing, others were shouting a farewell. Here and there on
the sunlit waters, rising and falling, were the flowers which had woven
on the sea a gorgeous carpet. "Well," said the lieutenant-commander, "I
admit that this is a Yugoslav island."

I forget whether Signor Buonfiglio made any remark, but a few hours
later at Velaluka he was most incensed. As our boat--we had returned to
the old _Porer_ at Komi[vz]a--sailed into the harbour a huge Yugoslav
flag was flying from the summit of a hill, with French, British and
American flags around it. The destroyer had arrived before us and the
burly journalist was striding up and down the quay. "I protest," he
exclaimed, as he saw us, "and not as a journalist but as an Italian
citizen! I protest!" Between us and the front row of houses, which
included the town-major's office, there was a large empty space--the
inhabitants could be descried up the side-streets and behind the
windows. De Michaelis, the town-major, was evidently a superior young
man; as he poured out the champagne he told us with perfect frankness
that the educated people at Velaluka were Yugoslavs. Suddenly there was
a terrific noise just underneath us. We hurried downstairs and found
that the soldiers in their excitement had fired off a machine gun into
the wall. Half an hour later the firing could be heard from the top of
the hill, but we never ascertained whether anyone was wounded. In this
place the Italianist party sent to us an ex-publican who had now joined
the police, a small trader and a municipal clerk who had recently been
imported from Zadar. The Yugoslavs were a large landowner, a doctor and
a priest, who told us that the people for the most part were refusing to
accept gratuitous food from the Italians.

ON THE WAY TO BLATO

We were anxious to visit Blato, an inland village of 8000 inhabitants.
De Michaelis regretted very much that he had no carriage, but a Yugoslav
had a quaint little car on which he was learning how to drive and he was
kind enough to take us--for which he was afterwards deported to Italy.
The good man made so much noise in changing his gears that our progress
was advertised in the uttermost fields, and very few of those who bore
down upon us came unprovided with flowers. Several of the bouquets hit
Pommerol or myself in the eye, and t