Bukarest had, for the moment anyhow, lost interest; my work there was completed, and a telegram from London instructed me to proceed to Belgrade. The trains _via_ Budapest being overcrowded, I decided on the Danube route, and left by the night train for Orsova, in company with a number of journalists and business men from all parts of Rumania. We reached the port of the Iron Gate before dawn, and found a Hungarian steamer waiting; soon after daybreak we were heading up stream. Behind us lay the Iron Gate, its gloom as yet unconquered by the sunrise; on our left the mountains of North-Eastern Servia rose like a rampart; on our right the foothills of the Carpathians terminated abruptly at the river’s edge; in front the Danube shimmered with soft and ever-changing lights; a stillness reigned which no one cared to break, even the crew spoke low, like pious travellers before a shrine. War’s alarms seemed infinitely distant from those glistening waters set in an amphitheatre of hills. “How can man, being happy, still keep his happy hour?” The pageant of dawn and river and mountain faded as the sun rose higher; dim outlines became hard and sharp; the Iron Gate, surmounted by eddying wisps of mist, looked like a giant cauldron. The pass broadened with our westward progress revealing the plain of Southern Hungary, low hills replaced the mountains on the Servian bank. A bell rang as we stopped at a small river port, it announced breakfast and reminded us, incidentally, that stuffy smells are inseparable from human activities, even on the Danube, and within sight of the blue mountains of Transylvania. My travelling companions were mainly British and French, with a sprinkling of Austrians and Italians. To all of them the latest development in the Balkan situation was of absorbing interest, and they discussed it incessantly from every point of view. Their attitude, as I learnt later, was typical, not one of them had failed to foresee everything that had happened; in the case of the more mysterious mannered, one had a vague impression that they had planned the whole business, and were awaiting results like rival trainers of racehorses on the eve of a great race. These citizens of the Great Powers were, in their commerce with the Balkan peoples, a curious mixture of patron and partisan. The right to patronize was, in their opinion, conferred by the fact of belonging to a big country; the partisan spirit had been developed after a short residence in the Peninsula. This spirit was perhaps based on genuine good will and sincere sympathy, but it certainly was not wholly disinterested. There was no reason why it should have been. No man can, simultaneously, be a good citizen of two countries; he will nearly always make money in one and spend it in the other. Patriotism is made to cover a multitude of sins, and, where money is being made, the acid test of political professions is their effect on business.