The Days of a Man 



behind to secure the luggage, the lady and I now 

 drove in the black night through a burned bazaar, the 

 Mohammedan business quarter, followed by a clamor- 

 ous group of Moslems, descendants apparently of the 



Scant " Forty Thieves." Arrived at the dejected little 

 "Hotel de 1'Europe," we found no rooms vacant; but 

 a courteous English journalist offered to release one of 

 his two rooms to the lady, while I could sleep on a 

 bunk downstairs behind the washroom. The sad- 

 eyed landlord consented; he meant well but seemed 

 weighted with gloom. 



Before retiring the Italian lady asked me if it 

 would be safe for her and her companion to take a 

 carriage next morning to drive about through the 

 back country. I assured her that it would probably be 

 safe enough, but that she would find no roads. I then 

 remarked that but for her Italian name I should have 

 thought her English. "I was English/' she said, 

 "until I married an Italian prince." 



A peasant In London seven months later that is, im- 

 me diately after the declaration of war Mr. H. 

 Charles Woods, war expert of the Evening News, 

 asked me to call on him, though to our knowledge 

 we had never met. He wanted to explain that he was 

 just back from Berlin, where, in the last week of 

 July, German officers had assured him they were 

 about to force a war. He then asked with some 

 surprise: "Haven't I seen you before? Didn't you 

 drive into Scutari one dark night with an Italian 

 princess? And didn't you meet a young Englishman 

 who gave up a room to the lady? Well, I'm the man." 

 To complete the story, in 1918 I met Mr. Woods in 

 San Francisco, where he gave several informing 

 lectures on the Balkan problems, pleading especially 



C 530 3 



