Meanwhile Jo and Blease had found refuge in the house of the military
commandant. It was a hovel like all the houses, but they were given a
huge log fire which was built on the mud floor. Their stockings were
soon hanging on a line above the blaze, and their shins were scorching,
while they drank wonderful liqueur which was hospitably poured out by
the beautiful old host.
Turkish coffee was prepared for them by a soldier in a bursting French
fireman's uniform.
The captain's fire was the rendezvous of the village. Amiable and
picturesque people came in and talked about the unhealthiness of the
place, the relative bravery of nations with a special reference to the
courage of Montenegrins, and about the submarine raid and of how the
Austrian captain had repeatedly fired his revolver at the sailors of
the boat he had sunk while they were swimming in the water. Their eyes
were streaming, not with emotion, but because in Montenegro one has no
chimneys.
At dusk the rest of us arrived.
Pages:
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417