A square-jawed Servian of some six-and-twenty years, dressed as a European with the exception of the fez, entered the Hôtel Belgrade for a cup of coffee--one act which never attracts suspicion. The café of the distinguished hostelry was otherwise deserted except for the Englishman and me. The stranger seated himself near us, looked us over while he sipped his coffee, then addressed us cautiously. ‘You are English correspondents?’ he inquired in a low voice in German. ‘We are,’ said my comprehending companion. ‘I have a confidential communication to make. Will you take me to your room?’ We went to the Englishman’s room, and the Servian explained his mission; whereupon he opened the door and called in a boy, not over fifteen, clad in a Greek gabardine, and carrying a basket of eggs. This was our first meeting with the agent of the revolutionary committee. Of course, the papers meant for us were among the eggs. For many weeks thereafter the envoy extraordinary and his youthful first secretary delivered the incriminating documents, but seldom twice in the same manner. One day we received a message asking us to meet the insurgent at a certain house within the hour; the case was imperative. We made our way to the place indicated, and there received the revolutionist’s report with the map already mentioned. The man apologised for being unable to bring his final paper to us, and continued, ‘I must not be seen in the street to-day. They have my brother. They came to the house this morning while I was out and took him. The boy found me, and warned me not to return. For me it is fortunate that my work here is done.’ We never saw the Servian committaji again, and do not know that he eluded his pursuers; perhaps they were too close on his trail. Monastir was thronged with Turkish warriors, Albanians, Anatolians, and European Turks, soldiers and bashi-bazouks, hale men and halt men; a one-armed soldier and a hump-backed dwarf carried guns, Turk and Turk alike. The vast barracks was overcrowded, tents stretched across the parade ground, otherwise seldom utilised, and climbed high up the mountain behind the caserne. The military hospital was surrounded by tents. A certain subdued delight fills the breast of the gentle Turk, and renders the combative Albanian loyal to the Padisha, when the native _rajah_ gives cause for castigation. There is glory for Mohamed in the despatch of an infidel, and material profit in the plunder reaped.[6] Nearly a hundred thousand Albanian and Turkish soldiers were crowded into the Monastir vilayet to ‘repress’ the ‘armed insurrection,’ and such resident Mohamedans as were not called to the colours sharpened their yataghans and joined unorganised in the work of the army.