We had tea with the Russians in a little arbour on the roadside, and
chewed sweets which had just arrived from Petrograd, having been three
months on the journey, but none the worse for that. Many officers came,
amongst them the husband of the little Russian girl we had met at
Prepolji. They all seemed to be Voukotitches, and at last the Sirdar
himself honoured us. He is a huge man, and yet seemed to take up more
room than his size warrants. He has a flat, almost plate-like face, with
pallid blue eyes which seemed to focus some way beyond the object of his
regard. Were his moustache larger he would be rather like Lord
Kitchener, and he was very pleased at the obvious compliment. He poses a
little, moves seldom but suddenly, and shoots his remarks as though
words of command. He was very kind to us, and was immensely astonished
at Jo's Serbian, holding up his hands and saying "Kako" at every one of
her speeches. He suggested that poor Bogami should be beaten, but we
begged him off. Captain Voukotitch, the husband of a day, was appointed
to be our guide for the morrow--because Jo spoke Serbian.

After tea we went up to the bubbly mosque, which was in reality the
Greek church. We entered a large gate; on the one side of a yard was the
church, and on the other a big two-storied rest-house, where one could
lodge while paying devotions or doing pilgrimages. Its long balconies
were filled with country folk all come for the festival, and who were
feasting and laughing as though the war did not exist. The courtyard was
filled with men and women in Bosnian costumes, white and dark red
embroideries. Through the open door of the church one could see the
silhouettes of the peasants bowing before the Ikons and relics. It was
almost dark, and one man began to play a little haunting melody upon a
wooden pipe, but though they linked arms and shuffled their feet, the
young men did not dance.