A bitter breeze came up with the evening. We came to a green
valley, at the end of which was a rocky gorge, down which ran the
twistiest stream: it seemed as though it had been designed by a lump of
mercury on a wobbling plate. We turned from the gorge on to a hill so
rocky that the path was only visible where former horse-hoofs had
stained the stones with red earth.
The village consisted of an enormous school, a little church, soldiers
encamped round fires in the churchyard, and seven or eight wooden
hovels. Our guide stopped at the door of the dirtiest and rapped. A
furtive woman's face peered out into the gloom. We climbed painfully
from our saddles, for we had been thirteen hours on the road.
"Beds?" said the guide to the woman.
"Good Lord!" thought we.
She shook her head dolefully and said, "Ima," which means "there is."
Serbians nod for no. The woman slid out into the night and passed to
another building, climbed the stairs to a veranda and disappeared.
It grew colder, the guide was busy unharnessing the horses, so shivering
we sought refuge in the dirty house, which was not quite so bad within
as we had feared.
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