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 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.
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