“Mrs. Burchell, in her agitation, dropped the envelope on the floor. Mrs. Brenchley picked it up and, holding it, continued to describe the scene in an agitation only a little less than Mrs. Burchell’s, exclaiming, ‘Oh, the blood—how horrible! Look, how dark it becomes; see—the soldiers are coming upon us—shooting down all they meet—’ “‘What are they like?’ asked someone. “‘They seem to me like Russian uniforms; but it is dark and I cannot see clearly....’ “‘Now the King is dead!’ she (Mrs. Brenchley) cried. ‘But, oh, what confusion! What bloodshed!’ “All these ejaculatory comments were rapidly uttered as Mrs. Burchell was being helped to her seat and not much notice was taken of them at the time. Mrs. Brenchley, however, declares that she has a lively recollection of what she saw and what she said. “Mr. Stead turned an inquiring gaze to Mr. L——, who had given him the envelope.... “‘What was in the envelope?’ Mr. Stead asked. “‘Look!’said Mr. L——. Opening the envelope he took out a sheet of note-paper on which was the signature, ‘Alexander.’ “‘It is the King,’ he exclaimed. “‘But,’ said Mr. Stead, ‘her description—was it correct?’ “‘It was exact,’ replied Mr. L——. ‘The palace, the King, the Queen. Her description is exact.’ “And then the medium, who had been silent as if recovering from the emotion through which she had just passed, said: “‘Depend upon it, it will all happen as I have seen it, if nothing is done to prevent it, and that ere long!’ “Mrs. Burchell’s own version is that she added, ‘Even then, although they may postpone it, it will certainly come to pass.’” CHAPTER VIII NISCH AND SOPHIA From Belgrade to Nisch—Nisch—Provincial Hotel Accommodations—The Monument of Skulls—Tzaribrod—Sophia—Value Received for $1.25 per Diem—Dragoleftsky. For a long time the words “Brigands” and “Bulgarians” seemed to me synonomous, for it was not so very long ago, I thought, that to be kidnapped and behold the tragic story of your life subsequently illuminating the pages of every journal, you had only to go to Bulgaria; and these thoughts were not devoid of some prestige. But since the days of Pat Crowe and Raisuli the Bulgarian man-stealers seem to have forgotten their lines and faded ignominiously into the wings of the stage of publicity. In fact, I discovered later, that you might be just as safe in your room at the “Grand Royal Hotel” in Sophia as it would be possible to be in your apartments in any fashionable hotel in America—and safer, because at the “Grand Royal” in Sophia you are not in the predatorial power of a gang of domesticated yeggmen disguised as waiters, porters, bellboys and what not. So we decided to tempt our fate on a certain June morning by shaking the dust of Belgrade for that of the Servian frontier. [Illustration: FRUIT VENDERS, NISCH.]