nd we saw the
debouchment of our street in a main thoroughfare. The others saw it,
too, for they slackened off. Just before we reached the light we
stopped and looked round. There was no sound or sight behind us in the
dark lane which dipped to the harbour.

'This is a queer country, Cornelis,' said Peter, feeling his limbs for
bruises. 'Too many things happen in too short a time. I am
breathless.'

The big street we had struck seemed to run along the crest of the hill.
There were lamps in it, and crawling cabs, and quite civilized-looking
shops. We soon found the hotel to which Kuprasso had directed us, a
big place in a courtyard with a very tumble-down-looking portico, and
green sun-shutters which rattled drearily in the winter's wind. It
proved, as I had feared, to be packed to the door, mostly with German
officers. With some trouble I got an interview with the proprietor,
the usual Greek, and told him that we had been sent there by Mr
Kuprasso. That didn't affect him in the least, and we would have been
shot into the street if I hadn't remembered about Stumm's pass.

So I explained that we had come from Germany with munitions and only
wanted rooms for one night. I showed him the pass and blustered a good
deal, till he became civil and said he would do the best he could for
us.

That best was pretty poor. Peter and I were doubled up in a small room
which contained two camp-beds and little else, and had broken windows
through which the wind whistled. We had a Wretched dinner of stringy
mutton, boiled with vegetables, and a white cheese strong enough to
raise the dead. But I got a bottle of whisky, for which I paid a
sovereign, and we managed to light the stove in our room, fasten the
shutters, and warm our hearts with a brew of toddy. After that we went
to bed and slept like logs for twelve hours. On the road from Rustchuk
we had had uneasy slumbers.

I woke next morning and, looking out from the broken window, saw that
it was snowing. With a lot of trouble I got hold of a servant and made
him bring us some of the treacly Turkish coffee. We were both in pretty
low spirits. 'Europe is a poor cold place,' said Peter, 'not worth
fighting for. There is only one white man's land, and that is South
Africa.' At the time I heartily agreed with him.

I remember that, sitting on the edge of my bed, I took stock of our
position. It was not very cheering. We seemed to have been amassing
enemies at a f