There is but one object of absorbing interest to be seen in Nisch, and that is what once was a tower of human skulls, erected by the Turks. This ghastly monument commemorates the Turkish victory over the Servians near Nisch in 1809, and it is said to have been composed originally of twelve hundred of the enemies’ skulls. Now but one remains, too deeply imbedded in the mud-cement for easy extraction, and for that reason left undisturbed by the relic-hunter. When Nisch became Servian all the skulls which could be found, except this one, were buried reverently. Because the time of arrival and departure of trains in the Balkan States appears to be a matter of mere conjecture and of little consequence, it is the custom for travellers to be at the depot at least an hour before train time. On the day set for our departure from Nisch we were awakened at four in the morning, so that we might have plenty of time to take coffee, be jolted the two miles over the cobblestones and wait for the train for Sophia, _due to arrive_ at Nisch at six o’clock. The route from the Servian frontier to the capital of Bulgaria is rich in wild and picturesque scenery, for almost immediately after leaving Nisch steep grades are encountered and continue until the divide is reached at Dragoman. From there the line descends none too gradually and Tzaribrod is the next stop. At this point the Servian crew surrenders the train to the care of the Bulgarians, a perfunctory customs examination is made of your baggage and you turn the hands of your watch an hour faster to “East European Time.” Beautiful mountain scenery marks the remainder of the journey, and in exactly six hours after leaving Nisch (including the hour change of time) you are in Sophia. When you alight from the train don’t think you have made a mistake and wax discouraged because you did not locate Sophia immediately, for almost all of these Balkan towns have an unhandy habit of springing up some two or three miles inland from their respective railway stations. You have only to jump into one of the numerous open cabs which meet all trains, each of a different and distinct Renaissance design, and make signs that you wish to be driven to the Hotel So-and-So. [Illustration: A STREET SCENE, SOPHIA.] During the ensuing voyage, your driver, in red fez and baggy, ill-fitting Turkish bloomers, will, by deft manipulation of the reins, graze more lamp-posts and curb-stones without regard to speed limits or to the possible scattering of his fares _en route_ than any fire-engine driver it has ever been your misfortune to come in contact with. Yelling with the full power of his leather lungs, sometimes at his animals and sometimes at the foolhardy Bulgarians who may get in his way, he will jolt you diagonally across trolley tracks and swing you dangerously around corners, now on the port tack and now on the starboard, like an ambulance driver on a hurry call.