At dusk, when I went again to the cemetery to superintend the packing of the two-wheeled carts, I found a murky atmosphere. A Turkish graveyard is, under any circumstances, a melancholy place. The ground is uncultivated, and rough, cuneiform stones, a couple of feet in height, are strewn pell-mell to mark the graves. In this cemetery every yard of ground was covered with disembowelled animals, dung, broken carts, and refuse from past encampments. The night was, as usual, pitchy dark, and it was raining heavily as I stumbled over graves, and carcases, and horrors of all kinds, to find the men, guided only by their camp fires. I arrived at a moment of excitement. One of our drivers had just let off his rifle, whether accidentally or not, I never discovered, and he had nearly killed an officer who was passing. The officer was a little upset, and was now in a loud voice threatening to punish our man. But I invented an explanation for the incident, and expressed regret, and the officer, who was luckily otherwise preoccupied, agreed to forgive the driver. But our men were in sulky mood. Was it a wonder? For they were now face to face with the mountains of Montenegro, which would henceforth lie between them and all they loved on earth. And now this man said he couldn't take more than one package in his cart, and another couldn't take anything: "Nema, ne moshe; nema, ne moshe" met me at every turn. The situation must be tackled; so I called the men together, round one of the camp fires, that I might see their faces. I told them how much I sympathised with them in having now to leave their country behind, and to make this journey over the mountains, into a strange land; the situation was bad, but they wouldn't make it better by bad behaviour; two "bads" did not make a "good." Prudence, as well as patriotism, required that they should go forward. If they attempted now to return to their homes, they would be imprisoned, or starved, or shot. It was only the spirit of Serbia which could some day reconquer Serbia, and they, the Serbian Army, were the guardians of that spirit. Up to now they had a splendid record of behaviour; would they not keep it unsullied to the end? Then the personal touch. Was my task an easy one? Did they wish to make it more difficult? Had I not come from afar to help their country, and would they be less patriotic than the stranger from another land? Had I not shared with them--Before I could say more, my voice was drowned in a chorus of "Ja! Ja! Maika! Ja! Ja! And don't you know that ours is the only column that has lost no men from desertion? Ja! Ja! Maika! It is hard, but we won't grumble." And content was restored. I told them all to bring tins, or paper, for some extra rations of tea and coffee, for the trek, and the naughty mood of these impressionable, child-like, affectionate peasant soldiers was put away. CHAPTER XXXV