two flew away. Sava
and I stopped and tinkered at the old machine for about an hour, changed
all the sparking plugs again, after which she went better. We reached
Kralievo without incident, where we cast loose the female relation. From
Kralievo passed over the Morava, which was pretty floody and had
knocked the road about a bit. The road led right through the Shumadia
country, where the first revolts of the Serbian nation against their
Turkish oppressors were engendered. We passed the old Serbian
churchyard. I never passed by without going in. These queer old
tombstones all painted in days when pure decoration had a religious
appeal, these tattered red and white and black banners lend such a gay
air to death; these swords and pistols and medals carved into the stone
seem almost carrying a bombast to heaven. On one side of each tombstone
is the name of its owner, preceded by the legend, "Here lies the slave
of God." Do slaves love their masters?

When we passed this road in the winter, black funeral flags hung from
almost every hut, and even now the rags still flap in the breeze. A
Serbian boy, clad in dirty cottons, shouted to us, making
gesticulations. We slowed down and stopped.

"Bombe," he cried. "Aeropla-ane. Pet," he held up five fingers, "y jedan
je bili slomile. Vidite shrapnel."

He pointed. We saw a quiet, early autumn landscape, the blue sky
slightly flecked with thin horizontal streaks of cloud. Any scene less
warlike could not have been imagined.

"Vidite tamo," he cried once more.

Straining our eyes one could just see, between the lowest strata of
cloud, a series of small white round clouds floating.

"Shrapnel," said Sava, pointing.

"They hit one," said Mr. Berry.

I let in the clutch, we sped on once more. Bang! a tire burst.

Motor driving in Serbia is not a profession, it is an art. We were on
another of these first-class Serbian roads. Presently we came to a long
downhill.

"That is the place," said Mr. Berry to Sister Hammond, "where we spent
the night last winter when the motor stuck in the mud. There, beneath
that tree."

We shrugged our way down the hill, and presently came into the gipsy
environments of Kragujevatz.

A man stopped us, holding up a hand.

"Bombe," he said.

We got out. In the soft earth at the side of the road was a neat hole,
four inches in diameter. Peering down we could see the steel handle of
the unburst bomb. We next passed a smashed paling, in the garden