He pointed. We saw a quiet, early autumn landscape, the blue sky slightly flecked with thin horizontal streaks of cloud. Any scene less warlike could not have been imagined.
"Vidite tamo," he cried once more.
Straining our eyes one could just see, between the lowest strata of cloud, a series of small white round clouds floating.
"Shrapnel," said Sava, pointing.
"They hit one," said Mr. Berry.
I let in the clutch, we sped on once more. Bang! a tire burst.
Motor driving in Serbia is not a profession, it is an art. We were on another of these first-class Serbian roads. Presently we came to a long downhill.
"That is the place," said Mr. Berry to Sister Hammond, "where we spent the night last winter when the motor stuck in the mud. There, beneath that tree."
We shrugged our way down the hill, and presently came into the gipsy environments of Kragujevatz.
A man stopped us, holding up a hand.