There was now only one more dispensary to be established, and on September 9th I drove with Colonel Dragomiravitz, who was accompanied by his wife, and little son, to choose the site. We examined the map before we left, and the Colonel suggested Pruyelina. But when we reached this place, I didn't like its appearance. There was only the one road of approach, and Jelendo, a village further along the road, became our objective. But as we drove, the Colonel remembered that at Ovcharska Banja there were 150 Bosnian and Herzegovinian refugees, and that, hidden away amongst the mountains, were many villages, with neglected populations, and he decided that he would like the dispensary to be placed at Ovcharska.

Our road lay through Milanovatz and Chachak. At the latter place we stopped, and Colonel D. and I drank Turkish coffee at the hotel, whilst Madame took her little boy to spend the day with his grandmother. What has now become of them?

Beyond Chachak the country was gorgeously beautiful. The road lay alongside the wide Morava, and we faced, all the time, the forested Ovcharska mountains, 3,000 feet in height, a surprise of beauty even in this beautiful country. But when we turned the last corner, and found ourselves in the Ovcharska valley, I could scarcely contain my joy. A narrow and thickly-wooded valley, between high mountains, also densely forested; on the left of the wood, the adventurous Morava was rushing over boulders, and tumbling down steep rocks, in quest of its long-looked-for Nirvana, in the sea, and on the right of the road, which wound in and out amongst the trees of a thick wood, were again high mountains. Banja is the Serbian for baths, and Ovcharska is a nucleus of hot springs; they are not mineral, but contain, it is said, much radium. These springs bubbled here, there, and everywhere.

A few enclosures with wooden huts served as bathing centres, and peasant women, and men, suffering from rheumatism and other ailments, were bathing, in perfect faith that cures would follow. There was no village, but in a clearing of the forest stood one house, used by the timber contractor. This would, I saw at once, be suitable for emergency winter quarters. The only other buildings were little wooden cabins, which had recently been put up for the poor Bosnian and Herzegovinian refugees. Many of these were, in their picturesque clothes, strolling and sitting in the sunshine outside their huts.

This place was even more beautiful than Rudnik. But to my intense disappointment I saw no possible camping-ground for our dispensary. I told the Colonel; he thought there might be room enough where we stood, but I knew the necessary dimensions, and it was impossible.

"Very well," he said, "then we must go on to Jelendo." But he was evidently disappointed.

"Should we be of more use here or at Jelendo?"

"Oh, here undoubtedly," he answered, "because many paths which you cannot see, and of which you would not dream"—and he looked at the mountains—"all find their way here; whereas at Jelendo——"

I interrupted: "Very well, you stay here and look for a good rock by the river, for our lunching place, and I'll come back presently."

I took with me the head man of the place, the timber contractor, and we followed a little path through the wood for a couple of hundred yards. I saw there was no clear space as far as the eye could reach. But, by the side of us, and adjoining the river, where it was cascading down a precipice, the ground, though covered with trees and scrub, was level. I turned to my companion and pointed in front, and to the right of me. "Look here; you see this tree, and this, and this"—and I made a broad sweep with my hand and pointed to the left. "Please cut down all the intervening trees. Do you understand?"

"Ja, Gospocho" (Yes, madame).

"The trees must be down by to-morrow evening, because to-morrow I am going to place here an ambulance"—as the Serbians called it. "May I rely on this being done?"

"Oh yes, Gospocho, without doubt."

I returned to the Colonel, told him that everything was settled, and showed him the site; we ate our sandwiches by the river-side, accepted an invitation to a second lunch, in the house of the wood contractor, in order not to offend, and started on our homeward drive.

At Chachak we were lucky enough to meet the Prefect of Milanovatz, the district in which Ovcharska was included. The Colonel and I therefore asked him to be kind enough to ensure that arrangements for the clearing of the trees, for our dispensary, should be completed by to-morrow. He began by saying that he would telegraph to me when the work was finished. "Oh," I answered laughingly, "I don't want a telegram; I shall assume that the wood will be cleared by to-morrow. But, in any event, we are coming to-morrow evening, and if necessary we will ourselves help to clear the forest." That settled it, and the Prefect promised to do all I wanted.

But, in case of hitch, I asked the unit to be prepared to help cut down the trees. We accordingly bought and took with us axes and hatchets; but when we, the dispensary party, arrived next day at Ovcharska, lo and behold! the site was clear. The place which yesterday had been forest, was now, though rough, an excellent camp site, and we slept comfortably in tents, on ground which had perhaps never before been directly shined on by the sun. Difficult to imagine a better example of the intelligent response, promptitude, and absence of red tape, characteristic of Serbian officials.

Dr. Hall was to be the doctor in charge, but she was suffering from a touch of fever, and for a few days, until she recovered, Dr. Tate kindly inaugurated the work, with the usual result, crowds of grateful peasants travelled incredible distances for the magic medicine and advice.

Our tents faced, on the south-west, an old church and monastery, picturesquely placed in the trees, about 300 feet up the mountain-side. On Sunday morning some of us, including one of our chauffeurs, the Rev. J. Little (Church of England), went to the service. We were a little early, and as we sat outside the church, on some benches, in a wooden shelter, the monk came and spoke to us. He was middle-aged, with black, thick, crimpy hair and beard. Two priests from neighbouring parishes were with him; one arrived from a long distance, riding a grey pony and holding up an umbrella, as it was raining heavily. The time for the service came, and we were shown into the church, and told to stand near the lectern, on which lay the big prayer book. The elder priest, with long grey beard, went to the lectern to open the book, and tried to find the place, with the evident intention of starting the service. But the sexton by his side, in short sleeves, and peasant dress, had his own ideas as to who was to take the lead, and though the priest remonstrated "Cheka, cheka!" (Stop, stop), the sexton opened his mouth on one side, and emitted a horrible howl, as the first chant. The old priest gave way, and contented himself with chiming in as best he could, with a response now and then. One up to the sexton. But presently the priest seemed to think we'd had enough of the prayers on that page, and he turned to another page. But that didn't please the sexton. He licked his thumb and turned the pages back again, and there was a pretty fluttering of leaves backwards and forwards. "Cheka, cheka!" remonstrated the priest, as he authoritatively turned the pages back again. This time the sexton acquiesced, with grumpy looks. All square. But the sexton ended one up. For, seeing that he was worsted at the lectern, he looked at the priest with a glance which said "All right, you'll see!" and walked smilingly out of the church, and promptly set all the noisy church bells clanging. That was a great success, for inside the church nothing further was audible, except an occasional wail, "Gospodine pomiliu" (Lord, have mercy), from the old priest, whom we had almost forgotten, behind the screen. As a finish to the service, the priest came out from behind the scenes with a saucer in which was bread that had been blessed, for the congregation. He himself gave it to the first three peasants, after they had kissed an ikon on the wall near; then he seemed to get bored, for he gave it up and placed the saucer on a desk, and left the people to take it themselves; and the service was ended. It had been conducted, as usual, in the old Slavonic language, which no one understood. The congregation had stood all the time, and taken no part, except that they occasionally crossed themselves.

Upon the walls of the church were beautiful frescoes of the fifteenth century, and because they were in bad condition, they were about to be whitewashed. Equivalent to saying, if you are ill, don't send for the doctor, murder the patient. The only touch of soulful atmosphere was to be obliterated.

After the service, the monk invited us to his house, adjoining the church, and in the corridor we sat at a table, and talked, whilst cigarettes, rakiya, and coffee were handed round. Mr. Little, our clergyman chauffeur, who generally drove me, was with us. The priests thought it very strange that a clergyman should be a chauffeur; they asked if he was married? He was not. That again was strange to them, because in Serbia a priest must marry whether he wants to do so or not. A monk, on the other hand, must not, even if he wants to. A monk and a priest were both present, so I asked them which of the two had the worse fate—the one who must marry even if he wouldn't, or he who mustn't even if he would. They laughed much, but the question was too difficult; the answer was not contained in their theology.

The priest then wanted to know if English clergymen might marry two wives? No interpreter was present, and our hosts only spoke Serbian, and I thought at first that he meant bigamy, and I held up my hands shocked. But he explained that he meant one wife after the other. He, himself, if his present wife died, would, he explained, never be allowed to marry again. Would our priest-chauffeur, who was sure to marry some day, be allowed to marry again if his first wife died? "Oh, yes!" I answered, "he may drive tandem but not a pair." I added that this chauffeur priest was a very lucky man. He marries a wife; she dies, no matter; he marries a second; she dies, no matter; he marries a third, and so on to infinity. And when I further added that, indeed, the only condition set by law as a premise for a priest's marrying with a dozen successive wives, was the decease of, or divorce from, the previous wife, our priest said he would like to live in England. "And I should like to live in Serbia," I replied. "If I were not already married, I should certainly choose to marry a Serbian priest, for my husband could not fail to put a high value on me; he would know that, though I might not be perfect, he could never get a better wife."

The priests then asked us if we would go with them to meet their Metropolitan (Bishop), who was to pass through Ovcharska. We walked together with all the monks to the tiny station on the railway, which ran from Ushitza to Stalatz, and, when the train stopped, we were introduced to, and talked with, the Bishop; also with two French doctors who were on their way from Ushitza to Nish. I hoped they might have some serum syringes, of which we were in need—much of our dispensary equipment having gone astray at Nish.

As the train was starting, the postman, with letters to be posted in the train, came leisurely along the line; when he saw that the train was moving, he gave a spurt, and dropped half the letters on the ground. He took no notice, but ran on and posted the others. We picked up those he had dropped, and ran after him and gave them to him. He could, with an effort, have put them in the box, but he calmly said, "Sutra" (to-morrow). I wasn't sure whether I envied him his philosophy; I hadn't time to think it out; I wanted to call on the man and woman who had given us lunch on our first visit. They were leaving Ovcharska and going to Chachak, and I wished to make sure of the legacy of their rooms in case of emergency weather in the winter; also I wanted to buy from them a sheep. I accomplished both missions, the latter at the cost of seventeen dinars. A dinar equals about sevenpence. Our sheep, therefore, cost us nine shillings and tenpence. It was destined for supper, and our timber friend said it must be roasted whole, according to custom. He made all the arrangements, and sent us word in the evening that we must come and watch it roasting. A fire had been lighted, in a shed, near our friend's house, as rain was still falling in torrents. The sheep was threaded on a stick, one end of the stick was made stationary, and the other end was held by a man, who turned it round and round, over the red ashes of the fire. It only took two hours to cook. When ready it was carried on the stick by two men, and a third held over it a big umbrella, to keep off the rain. We thus walked in procession to our own tents, where our cook—helped, I expect, by one of our friendly carriers—jointed and carved the poor animal. I can't say I enjoyed the feast: without the usual sceneries to disguise the horrors, it was too realistic.

Everything, however, was interesting and picturesque. It was difficult to imagine where the patients would come from; we seemed to be entirely surrounded by roadless mountains. But through the forests of beech, maple, and Turkey oak, narrow paths wound along, and up and down, the steep mountain sides, and the peasants brought their sick in wheelbarrows, or on stretchers made of branches, or along the main road, in ox-wagons.

The first patient was a boy who was terribly burnt, and already in a serious condition; he would certainly have died but for the help received.

The whole valley and hillsides were the property of the monks, and they asked us if we should like them to bless our dispensary work with an opening ceremony of prayer? We, of course, agreed gratefully.

The monk from our own near monastery, and the monk from the monastery of Sretenya, distant a two hours' climb up the mountains, together with the priest from Chachak, also the Prefect of the district, arrived next day at 2.30 p.m. A heavy shower of rain, as they arrived, made us take shelter in the mess tent. Our monk's pigs ran squawking past the tent doors, having been chased out of the kitchen by the cook. "Ah! my pigs," commented complacently our home monk. "Yes," I replied, also complacently, "and one day Gospodine Svesternik will come and ask, 'where are my pigs?' and," pointing to my central anatomy, "I shall reply, 'Here!'" That started conversation pleasantly, and then came tea. Serbian people like their tea weak, without milk, and with much sugar; and most of us liked it strong, with milk, and without sugar; so that gave us something not too difficult to talk about in the Serbian language. But that tower of Babel business was a confounded nuisance, and I was glad when the rain left off and we went out to the ceremony.

Outside the dispensary tent, a small table had been placed; upon it was a white cloth, and on this stood a silver candlestick holding the familiar long brown candle, with the Serbian arms marked upon it. The sexton now lighted the candle. Upon the table was also an old silver crucifix, with red beads let in (I should have loved to have that crucifix), and a bowl of water containing a sprig of the national plant—boziliac. The monk, on whose land we were stationed, put on a beautiful pale blue silk embroidered robe, and removed his tall black cap. The priest then took an incense vessel, filled with ashes, and swung it in front of us all in turn; prayers were then said by our monk, whilst untuneful responses were chanted by the other two. Then more incense swinging, and prayers, and sprinkling of the holy water from the plant, in all directions. Then our monk, holding the crucifix in one hand and the holy plant in the other, suddenly came and stood close in front of me. Good gracious! Evidently something was expected of me. For a minute I was frightened, but if in doubt in Serbia, kiss. I kissed the crucifix whilst he pressed the wet plant to my forehead. Evidently a good guess, for he passed on, and the act was repeated on the forehead of each one in turn. Finally our monk made a charming little speech about the benefits which the people would derive from the dispensary, and expressed his gratitude and appreciation. The other monk then took my hand and also spoke, with much feeling, of the gladness and gratitude which had filled their hearts at our coming to help their people, and the ceremony was over. They allowed me to take a photograph of them; but unfortunately this photo, with all photos taken during the first six months in Serbia, is now in the hands of the enemy.

The monks gave us pressing invitations to visit them in their mountain monasteries, and I had every intention of accepting their hospitality the next time I came to the dispensary. But I returned to camp on September 16th, the day following the benediction ceremony, and I never, alas! went again to my beloved Ovcharska.

The dispensaries were now all inaugurated, and the scheme, in full working order, was in every way fulfilling our highest hopes. The greatest, in fact the only, difficulty had been the delay in arrival of the dispensary medical equipment; this went wrong at Nish and elsewhere, and we had trouble to secure the necessary scales and serum syringes, etc. But miracles always happened at moments when things looked blackest, and by one means and another obstacles had been overcome.

The six new motor ambulances for the use of the six new dispensaries, only arrived on September 17th. They had arrived at Salonica without a note of authorisation for their delivery, and the port officials had refused to deliver them till weeks had been wasted in communication with London. And even on September 17th, the spare parts had not arrived. We had, therefore, been obliged to work the dispensaries, and to keep up communications, with the one camp ambulance that was left.