Jo was roaring with laughter. Some of the morning she had been in a woman's house listening to one of the policeman's tales of the professor, and soon the whole village was rocking with amusement at "Teshko."
At last the horses arrived—six miserable-looking beasts, but this time all had shoes. One was commandeered by the professor.
"He is the greatest philosopher in all Serbia," whispered an official to Jan.
"Ah, I guessed there must be some reason," said Jan.
We had a send-off, all the village came to see us go away. The day was a repetition of our previous experiences. A long tramp in the mud. At the top of the highest pass we had yet reached was an old wooden blockhouse.
We came upon it unexpectedly, rounding a corner. Montenegrin soldiers were cooking at a wood fire; but we were surprised to find all round the square log cabin deep rifle pits, the best we had yet seen in Serbia.
"Good Lord, what are those for?" said Jan.
"This is an old Turkish post," said the sergeant. "It has been kept up. We don't know why."
We walked off meditating. Montenegrins do not squander soldiers without reason; and then one's mind went back to the four armed guards who were accompanying us.
We discovered the truth later, let us tell the story here.