terrific bang went off again, and this time the "something white"
happened right on the roof of the house. The Hungarian officers all ran
out, and the machine guns below jabbered at them. Nobody was killed as
far as we know, but every one was content and delighted.

Sunset was approaching, and we rode away quickly, only stopping once to
drag a reluctant old Turk from the mountain side and make him sing to
the accompaniment of a one-stringed goosla. He hated to do it as all
his best songs were about triumphant Mahommedans crushing Serbs, and of
course he couldn't sing those.

He sat grumpily cross-legged on the ground, encircled by our horses,
droning a song of two notes, touching the string quickly with the flat
lower part of his fingers.

We left him very suddenly because the darkness comes quickly in those
hills, so we made for the high-road as hard as we could.

We rode fast to the Colonel's cottage, sat down to the dinner table,
which was decked with pale blue napkins, and a fine-looking old
Voukotitch, an ex-M.P. in national costume, acted as butler. In spite of
his seventy odd years he had joined the army as a common soldier. He
refused all invitations to sit with us, for he knew his place. The young
husband was his nephew, and they kissed fondly on leave-taking.

We rode back in the moonlight. At one spot on the road was a sawmill,
and the huge white pine logs lying all about looked like the fallen
columns of some ruined Athenian temple. We tried to enjoy the moment,
and to brush aside the awful thought that we must remount Rosinante and
Co. next day.