e on ahead
of us all, blowing his nose and cursing his horse.

In many places the "carriage road" was no road at all. The carts lurched
and bumped over rivers, boulders, fields, and the inevitable mud.
Several times we had to jump on our carts as they dragged us over deep
and rapid rivers. After three hours we stopped at a farm, our mounted
policeman called out the owners and autocratically ordered two of the
young men to accompany us as guides and guards.

They came, bearing their guns, white fezzed, white clothed, black
braided youths with shaven polls and flashing teeth. We began to climb,
and for hours and hours we toiled upwards. The carriages lumbered
painfully far behind us, led by their elderly and panting drivers.

"If this is what they call a good and easy road," we thought, "it would
have been better to harness four horses to each cart, and to have left
five carts behind."

The horses came from the plain of Chabatz, and had probably never seen a
hill in their lives.

"These horses will die," said the corporal; but he seemed more
interested in hunting for water for himself than in the struggles of the
poor beasts.

One of our Albanian guides was overwhelmed with the beauty of Cutting's
silver-plated revolver.

"How much did you pay for it?"

"Thirty francs," said Cutting, shooting at the scenery.

Jan produced his automatic, but the Albanian scorned it as one would
turn from a lark to a bird of Paradise. He turned the glittering object
over lovingly, thought, felt in his pockets, drew out a green and red
knitted purse, and shook his head.

"I will give you thirty francs."

But Cutting wasn't on the bargain. He pocketed the treasure again, and
we plodded on.

"How far are we from Tutigne?" we asked.

"Four hours," said a dignified Albanian, who had joined our party.

"No, two hours," said another.

"Three at most," corrected a third.

The first man lifted his hand. "I say four hours, and it is four hours.
With such horses as these we crawl."

We reached a desolate tableland at dusk. Here the horses halted for some
while. With the halt came a sudden desire to stay there for good. It
seemed as if we should never reach Tutigne. The evening brought with it
chilly damp breezes, and the footsore company was getting quite
disheartened.

"Let us camp here," said everybody.

But the policeman had a mailbag to deliver that night, and we had to
push on. Experienced as we were in Serbian roads, ne