His national uniform, the time and the cause—news of battle—a great victory over the 'Turkish dogs' by the Morava, spread like wildfire, and Cecil had no difficulty in finding his way to the palace of the prince, or, as he was then universally named, King Milano, which is simply a handsome house with back and front gardens, near the War Office, on the boulevard leading to the Semendria road, which is bordered by double rows of trees.
As Cecil approached this edifice, important though his mission, some delay occurred in his presentation, as a Circassian Prince with six hundred horsemen—all wild-looking and picturesque Tcherkesses, had just come in to join the standard of King Milano. He was a very handsome young fellow, wearing a busby of black Astracan fur, with a coat of the same material (worn over a shirt of the finest linked mail), with a row of cartridge tubes across the breast of it; his sabre blazed with precious stones, and he wore a pair of white kid gloves that would have done credit to Regent Street.
Then came Cecil's turn, and by officers of the staff, wearing blue coats and red trousers, and French kepis with waving plumes, he was ushered into a stately apartment, and was graciously received by Milano, who gave him his hand to kiss, and read the despatches aloud to the group around him, with considerable emphasis and the most intense satisfaction.
Photographs have made all so familiar with pictures of the Servian King, that no description of him is necessary. Suffice it, that he was all the more warm in his reception of Cecil on discovering that he was a Briton, and learning the services he had performed in the recent battle. Milano was then in his twenty-second year, having been born at Jassy in 1854. He spoke French with fluency, having been educated at Paris, where his studies were interrupted by the assassination of Michail Obrenovitch in 1868, after which he was proclaimed Prince of Servia by the Council of Regency.
Replies to the despatches would be given Cecil forthwith, and meantime an aide-de-camp was desired to conduct him to the Krone Hotel. There, weak and weary with his long and rapid journey, Cecil gladly flung himself upon a divan, and after a repast, made terrible by the inordinate seasoning of red pepper and red capsicums, or paprikas, with a bottle of Negotin claret, made from grapes that always grow on stony soil, he began to enjoy himself at an open window which faced the Gardens of Belgrade, which are certainly very beautiful.
Servian officers and Servian ladies were promenading there, or eating sweetmeats at marble tables, and reading the Servian Istok, while the band of the Royal Guard played in the gardens, and now and then the national air of 'La Belle Serbe' was called for and greeted with applause.
To Cecil, the people seemed pleasing in aspect; their eyes were blue or hazel, with chestnut hair and oval faces that were generally smiling. The men, tall, robust, and handsome; the women, slender, delicate, and all wearing graceful head-dresses.
Lovers were loitering there, and flirtations were in progress, as they are everywhere all over the world, and many were there who seemed happy as the yellow-throated bird that sung in a mulberry tree close by where Cecil lingered over a cup of coffee and a cigarette, and thought of the newness of his surroundings, and the strangeness of his fate, and his purpose in being there—if he had a purpose at all!
It was strange—passing strange! In that field by the Morava he set no store upon his life—not even for Mary's sake, as she was lost to him as completely as if she were dead—yet how many who had circles of relations and friends to deplore them, and who doubtless set all necessary store upon their own lives, had perished there, falling 'as the leaves fall when forests are rended.'
Was he the same Cecil Falconer, who, but four months before, had been marching to the drums of the Cameronians?