noises of life: rats scampered in all directions and were finally
hurdling over our heads. We had taken some aspirin to ward off the
stiffness of unaccustomed exercise, but we were sore, and the narrowness
of the bed forced us to lie on our backs; exhaustion, however, conquered
all discomforts, and we slept. Jo awoke in the night and yelped to find
that the mackintosh had slipped and that her head was resting on the
pillow.

We were up again at 5.30, and Vladimir, the guide, suggested that we
should breakfast at Novi Varosh, four hours on; but our stomachs were
not of cast iron, and we clamoured for eggs. We got them, left
Negbina--that was the name of the village--about seven, and once more
adventured on the road.

By eight we had passed the old Serbian frontier: the country was growing
more interesting, like the foothills of the Tyrol; on the streams were
inefficient-looking old wooden mills, the water rushing madly down a
slope and hitting a futile little wheel which turned laboriously.

Novi Varosh, with roofs of weathered wood gleaming purplish amongst the
trees, was a wonderful little town, and quite unlike any other we had
seen; clean without, and if the energy of its citizens at the village
pump is a good sample, clean within also, for Serbia. Here are Turks
too: ladies in veil and trousers, and trousered kiddies with clothes of
orange, yellow and purple. Twice in the streets we were stopped by
authority. Our lunch was well cooked, one can clearly see this has not
been Serbia for long, for the Serbs are the worst eaters in the world.
Jo gave medical advice to a Serb, and on once more.

On the road were travellers never ending in their variety, and one