There were now only five motors, and they were overweighted. So J. G. and Mr. Little came with the column and drove in one of the horse wagons. At the bottom of the descent, the road ceased and became a track across a narrow, swampy, grass plain. Here there was a congestion of convoys which blocked us from 2 to 5 a.m. This was a blessing, as the animals were exhausted. Rugs and coats were in the cars, but we sat round the fire on some straw, made coffee, and pretended that there was no frost and that we were quite warm. Before dawn (on Wednesday the 24th) came the moment when we had to take advantage of other columns who might be dozing, and get into the line before them. There was no road, only a track through beech scrub and up a steep ascent. I was accompanied, for a portion of the way, by the Artillery Major, whose wife and family had lately joined him; two of his sons, well-grown and well-mannered boys of about 15 and 16, were with him, in Serbian uniform. On the top of the hill, when we reached an opening in the forest, we were told that we must halt while the road ahead of us was being mended. That sounded hopeful, and we always cheered the men with every scrap of hope that came our way. Meantime I was invited by some officers to have breakfast with them--coffee, and little chunks of fat bacon and bread--a huge treat. Soon afterwards we continued our journey--the mended road was, alas! like all other good news, only a rumour--over ploughed fields, feet deep in mud. In the middle of the day, after a time of terrible straining for the oxen and horses, we were about to outspan for an hour's rest, but I was told we mustn't stop, even for a quarter of an hour. The animals, however, were exhausted, and we gave them a ten minutes' breathing interval, and the men time to swallow some food, and we went on. Would Kievo ever come in sight?