towards the town. There was an old beggar on the road, and he was
cuddling a "goosla," or Serbian one-stringed fiddle, which sounds not
unlike a hive of bees in summer-time, and is played not with the tips of
the fingers, as a violin, but with the fat part of the first phalanx. As
soon as he heard our footsteps he began to howl, and to saw at his
miserable instrument; and as soon as he had received our contribution he
stopped suddenly. We were worth no more effort; but we admired his
frankness.

Krusevatz market-place is like the setting of a Serbian opera. The
houses are the kind of houses that occupy the back scenery of opera, and
in the middle is an abominable statue commemorating something, which is
just in the bad taste which would mar an opera setting. There was an old
man wandering about with two knapsacks, one on his back and one on his
chest, and from the orifice of each peered out innumerable ducks' heads.
We returned to the station at nine, but were told that nothing could be
done till one. So we went up to the churchyard, spread our mackintoshes,
and got a much-needed sleep. The church is very old, but isn't much to
look at, and we, being no archæologists, would sooner look at that of
Trsternick, though it is modern.

We returned to the station to unload our trucks, for at this point the
broad-gauge line ceases, and there is but a narrow-gauge into the
mountains. A band of Austrian prisoners were detailed to help us, and
they at once recognized us, and knew that we came from Vrntze. They were
in a wretched condition: their clothes were torn, they said that they
had no change of underclothes, and were swarming with vermin, nor could
they be cleaned, for they worked even on Sundays, and had no time to
wash their clothes. They begged us for soap, and asked us to send them a
change of raiment from Vrntze. We explained sadly that we were not going