There were faint lights in some of the little wooden houses. Others
stood dark and unfriendly. We stopped. Curses filled the air. An ox-cart
was lying right across the road. After shouting himself hoarse the
policeman woke up an old man in a house near by--the owner. He
rheumatically grumbled in his doorway; so the gendarme called our
Albanians, and in two twos they had turned the cart upside down in a
ditch, saying--
"It serves you right."
Voices sounded in the darkness. The carriages lurched on. Presently they
left the road and turned on to grass, they seemed to be leaving the
village behind. We did not know where they were going, and were so tired
that we did not care, if only they would get somewhere and stop, which
at last they did. We jumped off into a squelch of water.
"Good heavens, this won't do!"
We searched the whole field for a dry spot, but though it was a
hillside, it was a swamp. We chose the least marshy place and built a
fire.
"Where is the mayor?" we asked of the strange faces dimly to be seen in
the light of our fire.
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