along, goodness knows where.
Neat young clerks, suit case in hand, elbowed their way through the
crowd. Young staff officers were walking, jostled by beggars. Jo called
to an old man who was driving a cart full of modern furniture, his face
drawn into wrinkles of misery--

"Where are you going?"

"Ne snam," he answered, staring hopelessly before him.

Wounded men were everywhere, tottering and hobbling along, for none
wanted to be taken prisoners. Some had ship's biscuit, which they tried
to soften in the dirty ditch water, others were lapping like dogs out
of the puddles. Sometimes a motor far ahead stuck in the mud, and we had
to wait often half an hour until it could be induced to move. Gipsies
passed, better mounted and worse clad than other folk, some of them half
naked. Many soldiers had walked through their opankies and their feet
were bound up with rag. Why in this country of awful mud has the opankie
been invented? It is a sole turned up at the edges and held on by a
series of straps and plaited ornamentations useless in mud or wet, which
penetrates through it in all directions.

We arrived at an open space and halted for lunch. Water had to be
fetched. It trickled from a wooden spout out of the hill and before our
cooking pot was filled we were surrounded by thirsty soldiers, who were
consigning us to the hottest of places for our slowness. Cutting
displayed a hitherto buried talent for building fires. We unpacked the
food and soon a gorgeous curry was bubbling in an empty biscuit tin with
Angelo, Sir Ralph Paget's chef, at the spoon. A leviathan motor car
lurched by containing all that was left of the Stobart unit. Another
monster passed, piled with Russian nurses and doctors. A face was
peeping out at the back, eyes rolled upwards, moustaches bristling. Was
it? Yes, it was--"Quel Pays"--but he did not recognize us.

[Illustration: THE FLIGHT OF SERBIA.]

The baking ovens appeared again, and we felt we had stayed long enough.
Some of our party were very fagged after their various adventures since
leaving Nish, so they climbed on to the carriages wherever there was a
downhill. The road wound up a narrow stony valley down which was flowing
a muddy stream. The trees on our side of the river were still green, on
the other bank they were bright orange, blood red and all the tints of a
Serbian autumn. The road full of moving people was like another river,
flowing only more sluggishly then the Ebar itself. For