anxious at the start, for he had done very little riding since
childhood; but his horse was quiet, and soon he had persuaded himself
that he was a cavalier from birth. Jo was riding astride for the second
time in her life.

We took the road to Zlatibor (golden hill). There was a heavy mist, the
hills were just outlined in faint washes on the fog, and as we mounted
the zig-zag path, higher and higher, the town became small and fairylike
beneath us; and a soldiers' camp made a queer chessboard on the green of
the valley. Jo's horse cast a shoe almost at the start, but the guide
said that it did not matter. We went on and ever up, our horses
clambering like goats. The scenery was on the whole very English, and
not unlike the Devonshire side of Dartmoor.

Our guide took us a two mile detour to show us his house. Later we
reached a tiny village with a queer church. We off-saddled for a moment,
and were welcomed by the inhabitants, who gave us Turkish coffee and
plum brandy (rakia), while in exchange we made them cigarettes of
English tobacco. At sixteen kilometres we reached a larger village,
where we decided to lunch. We were astonished by the sudden appearance
of a French doctor. He was delighted to see us, more so when he found
that we both spoke French, and invited us to coffee. We lunched with our
guide at the local inn. We ordered pig; indeed there was nothing else to
order.

"How much?" said mine host.

"For three," answered we.

"But how much is that?" replied mine host. "You see, each man eats