The lorry dropped us just before the first broken bridge. Then we had to
leave the road and face mud slush, climbing for hours. We had picked up
various friends--a courtly old peasant who was very worried to hear that
Kragujevatz had fallen, and feared for the invasion of Montenegro; two
barefoot girls, who asked Jo all the usual questions, and an
American-speaking Serbian man who had trudged from Ipek, the first
refugee on that road from Serbia. He was very mysterious, and contrary
to the usual custom, would not tell us about himself nor where he was
going.
He was very anxious to stand us drinks, but curiously enough, every one
refused. The professor had started before us, with a Greek priest. When
we passed him he lifted his hands deprecatingly, "Teshko."
Our hopes of arriving before dark were as usual crushed. The dusk found
us still floundering in the mud on wayside paths. It began to pour. The
hills above us became white--a straight line being drawn between snow
and rain--and our guides wanted us to spend the night at an inn two
hours before we reached Jabooka.
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