We came to a tiny cafe in which were faint tinkling, musical sounds.

Jan:  “I wonder what that is?”

Jo:  “It sounds queer:  shall we explore?”

Jan:  “I dunno, perhaps they wouldn’t like us.”

Jo:  “Come along.  Let’s see anyhow.”

And up we went.  In a large room was a deep window seat, and in the window the queerest little Turkish dwarf imaginable.  The little dwarf was sitting cross-legged, and was playing a plectrum instrument.  His head was huge, his back was like a bow, and his plectrum arm bent into an S curve, which curled round his instrument as though it had been bent to fit.  He was a born artist, and rapped out little airs and trills which made the heart dance.  There were three soldiers at tables, and presently one sprang out on to the floor and began to posture and move his feet, a woman joined him; the little man’s music grew wild and more rapid; another man sprang in, another woman joined, and soon all four were stamping and jigging till the floor rocked beneath them.  We gave the little man a franc for his efforts, and his broad face nearly split in his endeavour to express a voiceless gratitude.

We were no longer royalty, we were just dull, ordinary everyday folk, and at the station had endless formalities to go through, examinations of passes, etc., during which time all intending passengers were locked in the waiting-room.  But at last we were allowed to take seats in the train, and off we went.

We passed through the plain of Kossovo where old Serbian culture was prostrated before the onrush of the Turk, and whence Serbia has drawn all its legends and heroes; possibly the most unromantic looking spot in all Europe, save only Waterloo.  Here, far to the left, was Mahmud’s tomb:—­Mahmud the great victor, stabbed the day before the battle, and dying as he saw his armies victorious.  History contains no keener romance.  Serge the hero, accompanied by two faithful servants, galloped to the Turkish camp, and commanded an interview with the Moslem general, who thought he was coming to be a traitor.  In face of the Divan the hero flung himself from his horse, drew his sword, and stabbed Mahmud where he sat, surrounded by his armies.  Before the astounded guards had recovered their surprise, Serge was again upon his great charger and was out of the camp, cutting down any who barred his passage.  Mahmud did not die immediately, and his doctors slew a camel and thrust him into the still quivering animal; when the dead beast was cooling, they slew another, and thus the Moslem was kept alive till the Serbian hosts had been overthrown.  He and the Serbian Czar were buried on the same field—­one dead in victory, one in defeat.

We trundled slowly over the great plain whose decision altered the fate of the world, for who knows what might have grown up under a great Byzantine culture?  The farms were solidly built houses with great well-filled yards, surrounded by high and defensible walls.  We came into stations where long shambling youths, dressed in badly made European clothes, lounged and ogled the girls in “this style, 14/6” dresses.  Signs of culture!