It was always possible that the Bulgars had
blown up a bridge or so. One could imagine an anxious driver, his eyes
fixed on the line in front, looking for Bulgarian comitaj.
The travellers were restless. Our little French courier stood in the
corridor looking fiercely at the black night; his back view eloquently
expressive of his opinion of the Balkans.
Later on we all slept. A frightful braying sound awoke us.
No, not Bulgars--only the band. Same band, same station, same hour, same
awful incompetence.
So the princess had nothing to do with it!
Trainloads bristling with ragged soldiers passed us--open truck-loads of
them, carriage tops covered with sleeping men, some were clinging to the
steps and to the buffers.
Nish station had lost its sleepy air. Every one was energetically doing
everything all wrong. The four orderlies and the two Belgian sisters
were minus their passports. Some one had taken them away. These were run
to earth in the station-master's office, and as the party had no idea
where to go, we suggested they should come with us to the rest-house.
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