IN THE LAND OP THE BORA. 201 



miles on the Sarajevo road, which goes by the 

 name of its owner, Miric. Here we found the 

 beaters assembled under the command of a well- 

 known peasant sportsman, by name Bosco. They 

 consisted of a dozen stalwart and active Catholic 

 peasants, and had ready five ponies, mostly sorry 

 beasts enough. To me, fortunately, was allotted 

 Miric's own steed, a chestnut of the Podvelez 

 breed, which, like most of these, bore on its 

 gaskins the unmistakable scars of wolf-bites — a 

 relic of its foal days. He informed us he had 

 recently refused eight pounds for it, a high figure 

 here. 



Our route lay first across a mile of plain, 

 muddy with much rain, and traversed by several 

 swollen watercourses. In the middle of it we 

 divided forces, Miller and I taking with us a 

 local professor, who claimed to have done some 

 chamois-shooting in the Tyrol. The other two 

 were to go to stands divided to us by a deep 

 ravine. Our way lay up a rugged watercourse 

 past the hamlet of Vrabcici, and then between 

 high cliffs, on some of which vultures were gravely 

 seated. I stuck to the saddle till we reached a 

 spot where our ponies had to turn on their 

 quarters with their heads and forehands over 

 space. Then I got off, and, hearing we could 

 not ride much further, walked up to a sheepfold 

 (for summer use) half a mile on. It was now 



