My husband--he is an old man, and he is an Austro-Serb. If
the enemy catch him they will hang him."
"I'm afraid he will have to walk," said Jo.
"But he is so old," said the woman, with tears in her eyes; "he is
fifty."
"We ourselves will have to walk," said Jo. "Make him a knapsack for his
food. Give him warm clothes. It is his only chance of safety. And," she
added, "the sooner he gets away the better, for in a little all the food
on the road will be eaten up, and one will starve."
The woman thanked us. "I will make him go at once," she said, and ran
out wringing her hands.
A Russian woman with a thin-faced man sat at her table.
"You are going to Montenegro?" she said.
We nodded.
"I too am going. I am a good sportswoman. I have walked fifty kilometres
in one day."
We looked at her well-corseted figure, her rather congested face, and
had already seen thin high-heeled shoes.
"I will come with you, yes?"
The little man interrupted. "Why do you say such things, Olga? You know
that you cannot walk a mile.
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