“At this Mara’s anger departed as quickly as it had come. ‘There!’ she exclaimed, flinging her arms about his neck and kissing him upon both cheeks, ‘there spoke my own dear Gavrilo! Poor Gavrilo! What have I been saying? You know I love the Serbs no less than you do! You do know it, don’t you? Well, then, say so!’ “‘God forbid that I should believe otherwise!’ answered Gavrilo, kissing her in return. “As I left them I thought to myself that with Mara’s temperament, to say nothing of the ‘hundreds of children’ she promised him, Gavrilo’s married life would not prove monotonous, whatever else it might be. When, in the course of the subsequent fall and winter, I saw them again, they seemed as happy as a pair of wild birds. “Once, in the spring, when I was with them, the _comitajia_ chanced in some way to be mentioned, whereupon Mara at once darkened, saying to me: “‘That is my one sorrow.’ “‘But why should it be?’ Gavrilo asked her. ‘Have I not plighted you my word that I shall not take part in any—well, in any indiscretions that may be proposed?’ “‘Yes, I have not forgotten. You said that as long as I loved you you would be my good Gavrilo.’ “‘So,’ he returned gaily, ‘all you need do is to continue to adore me as I deserve.’ “‘But you meet with them at the _kafana_,’ she said, uneasily. “‘They are my friends,’ he answered. ‘Naturally, then, I meet with them. All men meet at the _kafana_. It is the way of men. A little wine or coffee or prune brandy and a little talk—that is all. I go also to church, but that does not make me a priest. And besides, dearest Maro, if I were not sometimes with the _momchidia_, how would I know the joy of returning to you?’ “‘If the devil had your tongue,’ laughed Mara, ‘he could talk all the saints out of heaven!’ “So it always was with Mara. Her ideas came and went—as Gavrilo once put it to me—like humming birds flitting in and out amongst the flowers. Never have I seen a human being turn from gay to grave, and back again, as rapidly as she. “Arriving at the little hotel in the early part of June, 1914, I found them all full of plans for a great fête to be celebrated on Vidov-dan—Kossovo Day—June 28. This day might be called the Serbian Fourth of July, but it partakes also of the character of our Memorial Day, for it is the anniversary of that tragic event in Serbian history, the Battle of Kossovo, in which the Turks defeated the Serbs in 1389, leaving the entire Serbian nobility dead upon the field. That is one reason why Serbia has no nobles to-day. ‘Kossovo’ means ‘the field of the black bird,’ the _kos_ being a black songbird resembling the starling. But this was to be no ordinary celebration of the holiday, for in the Balkan War of the two preceding years Serbia had consummated her independence and humbled the Turks, and a part of the Serbian racial dream was thereby realized. Mara, Gavrilo, and their parents united in urging me to return for the festival, and before departing I agreed to do so.