Horses fell, and their riders were thrown into the slush; wagons overturned, and were then, with their contents, destroyed as the quickest remedy; the road was one long pandemonium. At one bridge, over the River Drin, the scrimmage was even worse than usual. The bridge was so narrow that passage could only be effected in single file, and an officer near me estimated that 5,000 wagons were, at one moment, struggling at the entrance for places in the line. The loud voices of officers on horseback, shouting, and sometimes quarrelling, and of drivers urging their weary oxen, was like the noise of a thousand furious football crowds. Then suddenly above the din I heard my name, and an officer, wishing to expedite our column, shouted a dramatically worded biography, as an appeal to the soldiers to let us pass. But while we were still waiting to cross, I saw one desperate soldier, who was angry because an officer would not let him pass, seize the officer by the arm, with the intent to strike him. Promptly the officer took out his revolver and aimed it at the man. Fortunately the weapon was not loaded, so the officer, thwarted, turned round and seized a rifle from a soldier standing near. The culprit fled. The officer dismounted and pursued, caught up the man, whanged him on the head with the butt end, and was evidently intending to shoot. It was a horrible moment, but the man pleaded, others intervened, and the man was led away. Everyone's nerves were overwrought, and suffering and discomfort were so universal, that I don't believe that one death, more or less, would have seemed a great thing to those who were watching. But once across the bridge, and on the tramp, all was again silent, except for the monotonous and automatic cries of the drivers to their oxen: "Terrai! Chovai! Ide! Napred!" The route all day was roadless, through sloughs of mud, and unbroken scrub, and over boulders, and everywhere it was strewn with the dead bodies of oxen and of horses. At dusk we outspanned for the night, in the snow, at the top of a hill, near an Arnaut village. We had now, presumably, made up for the time lost at Prishtina, and rest for the animals was imperative. Captain W. supped with us. We were away again by 6 o'clock next morning (Saturday, November 27th). We ate mealie porridge at 5.30, as it was impossible to stop for food during the day, and it was good to have some physical basis of energy. This meant an hour's less rest for me and for the cook (now, in the temporary absence of Mrs. Dawn, Demetrius, the soldier man). But it was worth the effort. We trekked, this day, first through an Arnaut village; the houses were one-storied, mostly of stone, as protection from enemies and from Serbian vendettas, and, indeed, they were so substantially built that only cannons could have dislodged the inhabitants; and then we came into a vortex of columns converging on all sides from their various encampments.