f by six Turks lying by
the roadside, then there were three Turkish families, afterwards an
assorted dozen of small girls in trousers, finally, an old man doddering
along in a turban and a veiled beggar woman, who demanded backsheesh.
"Where are the Serbs?" we thought.

The Greek church looked as if it had been new built, so that the Serbs
could claim Prepolji as a Christian town, and had a biscuit tin roof not
yet rusted.

Our hotel was like that where Mr. Pickwick first met Sam Weller, a large
open court with a crazy wooden balcony at the second story, and the
bedrooms opening on to the balcony. When we opened our knapsacks to get
out washing materials, we found that the heat of the horse had melted
all the chocolate in Jan's, and it had run over everything. It was a
mess, but chocolate was precious, and every piece had to be rescued. We
had only been ten hours in the saddle, but we descended stiffly, and
were pounced on by a foolish looking man, with a head to which Jo took
immediate offence. This fellow attached himself to us during the whole
of our stay, and was an intolerable nuisance; we nicknamed him "glue
pot," and only at our moment of departure discovered that he was the
mayor who had been trying to do us honour.

The next day was Sunday, and the village full of peasants. Stiff-legged
and groaning a little within ourselves we walked about the town making
observations: Turkish soldiers, Turkish policemen, Turkish recruits, but
all the peasants Serb. The country costume is different from that of the
north, the perpendicular stripe on the skirt has here given way to
horizontal bands of colour, and some women wear a sort of exaggerated
ham frill about the waist. The men's waistcoats were very ornate, and
much embroidery was upon their coats.

An English nurse came into the town in the afternoon. She, a Russian
girl, and an English orderly had driven from Plevlie, en route to
Uzhitze. Half-way along the wheel of their carriage had broken in
pieces, so they finished the road on foot. Curiously enough we had
travelled from England to Malta with this lady, Sister Rawlins, on the
same transport. The Russian girl had been married only the day before to
a Montenegrin officer, nephew of the Sirdar Voukotitch,
Commander-in-Chief of the North, and she was flying back to Russia to
collect her goods and furniture.

Next day as we were sketching in the picturesque main street, from the
distance came the sounds of a weir