The hospital, many long low buildings, lay buried in a park of trees.
The staff lived in a tiny house near by, where we were welcomed by the
cook, Mrs. Roworth. She explained that as the house was hardly capable
of holding its ten or twelve occupants, a room had been taken for us at
the inn, but that we were to meal with them.

"Not that you will like the food," she said, "for it's all tinned, and I
have only twenty-five shillings a week to buy milk, bread, and fresh
meat."

We wondered why, in such a fertile country, a party of hard-working
people should be condemned to eat tinned mackerel and vegetables brought
all the way from England?

However, the dinner was excellent--all "disguised," she said, for she
had during the few weeks she had been there concentrated on the art of
disguising bully beef and worse problems, and had sternly put Dr. Clemow
on omelets and beefsteaks, as his digestion had caved in under six
months' unadulterated tinned food.

We met old friends, fellow travellers on the way out. In those days they
were a wistful little party, wondering how they were going to reach
Montenegro, the Adriatic being impossible. At last one of the passes was
hurriedly improved for them by a thousand prisoners, and they rode
through in the snow. Since then typhus had raged, two of their number
had been very ill, and one had died. Their energy had been tremendous,
and everywhere in the country they were spoken of as the wonderful
English hospital, and even from Chainitza, where there was a Russian
hospital, soldiers walked a long day's march in order to be treated by