From the slough of direst slavery
Serbia anew is born.
Through five hundred years of durance
We have knelt before Thy face,
All our kin, O God! deliver!
Thus entreats the Serbian race. Amen.”
It was what he knew. Nikola, Yovan, Marta. They were going.
“God help the women,” he said to himself. Turning, he went around and to the street. It was the end of a shift, and the men who had come out had washed, eaten and now were smoking their pipes in groups at one or another door. The women were collected too. There was excitement in the air.
“Mr. Dick,” some one called to him. “Is it true, the war?”
“I am afraid so,” he said.