us in future, the
autumn will always hold a sinister aspect. These trees seemed to have
put on their gayest robes to mock at the dreary processions. At
intervals by the roadside sat an ox dead beat and forsaken by its owner
as useless.

Dusk came, bringing depression; the travellers on the curly road looked
like mere shades. Coat collars went up and hands were pocketed. Little
camp fires began to twinkle here and there on the hillsides. We came to
a large open space where many fires blazed, respectfully encircling a
French aeroplane section. Opposite was a high peak topped by a Turkish
castle. There we wished to halt, but the corporal said we must push on,
as he wished to get food for the horses. After we had passed the castle
the dusk grew rapidly darker and the road narrower and more muddy.
Although camp fires twinkled from every level space, the never ending
stream of fugitives seemed to grow no less. Darkness only added to the
tragic mystery of the flight. The bullock carts poured along, the
soldiers crowded by.

A horse went down, the owner stripped the saddle off, flung it into a
cart and cursing stumbled on into the darkness. The carts following took
no notice of the poor horse but drove over it, the wheel lifting as they
rolled across its body. We shouted to the owner; but he was gone, so we
turned one or two of the carts off, and made them go round. But we could
not stay there all night. The horse was too done, and too much injured
by the cruel passage to move, so Jan reluctantly pulled out his
"automatic" and, standing clear of its hoofs, put two bullets through
its brain. It shuddered, lifted two hoofs and beat the air and sank into
a heap.

On we went progressing for mile after mile in the mire, but never a
house did we see, nor a spot to camp on. At last the corporal gave up
the quest for hay, and we were faced with the problem of spending the
night on a narrow road bounded on one side by cliffs beneath which ran
the Ebar, and on the other by an almost perpendicular bank. The night
was black, the mud a foot deep, and a stream ran across the road. The
carriages drew up in single file and we discussed the sleeping problem,
while Cutting cooked bovril on an ill-behaved Primus stove. Our drivers
had to sleep on the carts. The women also had carts to sleep in; and the
Scottish women offered Jo a place in their already well-filled carriage.
The men were fitted somehow into the rest of the carts, while Jo, Jan