We next passed a caravan of pack-horses heavily laden with bales, and proceeding, like everything else in Bosnia, at a snail’s pace, and then caught a glimpse of the Roman Catholic church of Foca, a long straggling village lying in a valley to the right. The village seemed to shrink away from the high road, but one cottage was nearer, and into the small yard of this our Zaptieh led us, to see if we could procure any food. Here we found a Christian woman with a small child, who, bringing out two ragged pieces of carpet for us to lie on outside her hut, did her best to prepare us a meal, and presently set before us a couple of toasted maize-stalks, five eggs poached in sour milk, some unripe plums, and unleavened maize and rye bread. For all this she only charged us a single ‘grosch,’ or about twopence, and seemed surprised when we trebled that amount. I can hardly describe the misery of the hovel and its surroundings, the haggard mother and poor squalid brat, scarcely better clad than when it entered the world,—the all-wretchedest of homes—with earth for flooring, a few stones in the middle to support the fire, above which hung a piece of hooked wood to support a caldron,—a small hole opening in the roof to let out the smoke, which had covered the wooden walls with soot like the inside of a chimney; a low partition shutting off the lair. There was no light but what came in at the door, and the few tatters she had strewn outside for us were the only furniture. There was besides, a shed, in which we imagined a cow, a small hen-roost, and a little patch of maize; but how little of this ever went to the rayah who tilled it was shown by the size of the garner, which was a mere wicker-work basket. But the most indescribable tokens of destitution were some clothes, or what once had been such, hung to the fence,—they were mere shapeless bundles of rags! We could not wonder much after this that the rest of the Christian village shunned the neighbourhood of the road. Leaving this abode of misery we began to descend into the valley of the Bosna, and pursuing a lane whose hedges were brilliant with the scarlet sprays of wild vines—they can take the gorgeous hues of Virginia creepers—we arrived about five at a small Han called Radanka, about an hour from Doboj, where we were glad to turn in, and obtained much the same accommodation as the night before. We were much amused at our Zaptieh, who showed religious scruples against taking the sour wine of the country, obtainable here, but drank copious draughts of Arrack (Raki), and showed no objection to Rum. At Doboj, however, where we got good red Slavonian wine, these scruples vanished.