already bulging at
all points with excess luggage; at the Serbian frontier Jan was asked
for his passport, and as they did not demand that of the widow, we
concluded that they imagined her to be Mrs. Gordon, and Jo and the
tattered one, two handmaids.

Immediately over the frontier the road began to be Serbian, but not as
Serbian as it became later on, and we reached Rudnik--and lunch--in good
condition. Another carriage similar to our own was here, containing a
Turkish family. The father, a great stalwart Albanian, and the son a
budding priest in cerise socks. The priest was carrying food to his
carriage, and we discovered that a woman was within, stowed away at the
back like the widow's luggage, and carefully protected by two curtains,
so that no eye should behold her. Her sufferings between Rudnik and
Mitrovitza can be imagined when you have heard ours.

From Rudnik we walked to ease our cramped limbs, and the road became so
bad that the driver went across country to avoid it. Here is the receipt
for making a Serbian road.

"The engineer in charge shall send two hundred bullock trains from Here
to There. He shall then find out along which path the greater number
have travelled (_i.e._ which has the deepest ruts), after which an
Austrian surveyor shall map it and mark it, 'Road to There.' Should the
ruts become so deep that the carts are sliding upon their bottoms rather
than travelling upon their wheels, an overseer must be sent to throw
stones at it. He and ten devils worse than himself shall heave rocks
till they think they have hurt it enough, when they may return home,
leaving the road ten times worse than before, for the boulders by no
means are to fill the ruts, but only to render them more exciting."

Oh, we walked. Indeed, we walked a good deal more than the driver
thought complimentary, we got out at every uphill, and put steam on so
that we should not be caught on the downhills. By supreme efforts we
managed to get in four hours' walking out of the torturous thirteen.
Once--when we were a long way ahead--we were stopped by a gendarme.

"Where are your passports?" demanded he.

"In the post-waggon," replied Jan.

"Why did you leave your passports in the post-waggon?"

"Because they were in the pocket of my great-coat."

"Why did you leave your great-coat in the post-waggon?"

"Because it is hot."

"I shall have to arrest you," quoth the gendarme.

But his officer came from an adjoining building