I was beginning to understand. The war about to commence was only the first phase; success would give to Servia sufficient territory and economic independence to enable her to prepare for a greater and inevitable struggle with Austria-Hungary. The pitfalls were many. No one realized the difficulties more fully than the man standing with me at that window, who was even anxious to expose them in his eagerness to gain a little sympathy. He knew that wise and wary statesmanship would be required in handling the Bulgarian question. The hot-heads at home would have to be restrained. At all costs peace with Bulgaria would have to be maintained, and this would be difficult. Servia had her megalomaniacs who were impatient and heedless of prudent counsels, whose aspirations in regard to national aggrandizement were boundless, who wanted to do everything at once and brooked no delay. Almost two hours had passed, and it was nearly noon when I rose to say farewell. While expressing my best wishes for Servia’s success in this first phase of her great adventure, I remarked that, presumably, Belgrade would cease to be the capital after Uskub had been taken and the Albanian coastline reached--a more central and less exposed position seemed desirable for the Royal residence and seat of Government. His answer was emphatic--Belgrade must always remain the capital, the Save was not the northern frontier of old Servia; all that--and he waved his hand towards the north--was Servian territory right up to and beyond Karlovci, which, at one time, had been in the diocese of a Servian bishop. When I left the Servian War Office that day I had forgotten all about rabbits and pythons; those dauby pictures portrayed the past, the future was the only thing that mattered. A passionate drama would shortly enact itself under the eyes of a cynical, unbelieving Europe; in that drama Servia would play a leading part and, if Colonel G---- P---- was typical of his countrymen, the final act would find another setting than the Balkans. From an open window this man had looked out upon a spacious and inspiring scene, had caught its message, and, no more a mere official speaking a foreign tongue, had found the rugged eloquence of a true soldier-statesman. He might have been a Servian Cromwell; such men are dangerous to their oppressors. An irresistible craving for quiet and solitude had overcome me. I drove to a place on the outskirts of Belgrade close to the Danube’s bank, and walked down to the river’s edge across flat, waterlogged meadows. At this point, the troubled Save had found peace in the greater stream, a mighty volume of water slid smoothly past the sedges, whispering mysteriously; sometimes the whisper swelled, and weed and wave, stirred by a passing breeze, filled the surrounding space with sighing sounds. CHAPTER III THE BATTLE OF KUMANOVO