here were three soldiers at tables, and
presently one sprang out on to the floor and began to posture and move
his feet, a woman joined him; the little man's music grew wild and more
rapid; another man sprang in, another woman joined, and soon all four
were stamping and jigging till the floor rocked beneath them. We gave
the little man a franc for his efforts, and his broad face nearly split
in his endeavour to express a voiceless gratitude.

We were no longer royalty, we were just dull, ordinary everyday folk,
and at the station had endless formalities to go through, examinations
of passes, etc., during which time all intending passengers were locked
in the waiting-room. But at last we were allowed to take seats in the
train, and off we went.

We passed through the plain of Kossovo where old Serbian culture was
prostrated before the onrush of the Turk, and whence Serbia has drawn
all its legends and heroes; possibly the most unromantic looking spot in
all Europe, save only Waterloo. Here, far to the left, was Mahmud's
tomb:--Mahmud the great victor, stabbed the day before the battle, and
dying as he saw his armies victorious. History contains no keener
romance. Serge the hero, accompanied by two faithful servants, galloped
to the Turkish camp, and commanded an interview with the Moslem
general, who thought he was coming to be a traitor. In face of the
Divan the hero flung himself from his horse, drew his sword, and stabbed
Mahmud where he sat, surrounded by his armies. Before the astounded
guards had recovered their surprise, Serge was again upon his great
charger and was out of the camp, cutting down any who barred his
passage. Mahmud did not die immediately, and his doctors slew a camel
and thrust him into the still quivering animal; when the dead beast was
cooling, they slew another, and thus the Moslem was kept alive till the
Serbian hosts had been overthrown. He and the Serbian Czar were buried
on the same field--one dead in victory, one in defeat.

We trundled slowly over the great plain whose decision altered the fate
of the world, for who knows what might have grown up under a great
Byzantine culture? The farms were solidly built houses with great
well-filled yards, surrounded by high and defensible walls. We came into
stations where long shambling youths, dressed in badly made European
clothes, lounged and ogled the girls in "this style, 14/6" dresses.
Signs of culture!

Why should the bowler hat, indiarub