I stuck my nose into a regular hornets' nest and soon found myself in
a most dangerous position. I was arrested by the provisional
government on the order of Lieutenant Colonel Niglitsch on a most
flimsy charge of traveling with false passports. In those times
arrests and executions were the order of the day. The old Servian
proverb of "Od Roba Ikad Iz Groba Nikad" (Out of prison, yes; out of
the grave, never) was fully acted upon. There were really no
incriminating papers of any description upon me, but my being seen and
associating with persons opposed to the provisional government was
quite enough to place me before a drumhead court-martial.

I was sitting in the Café Petit Parisien with Lieutenant Nikolevitch
and Mons Krastov, a merchant of Belgrade, when a file of soldiers in
charge of an officer pulled us out of our chairs and without any
further ado marched us to the Citadel. The next morning we were taken
separately into a small room where three men in the uniform of
colonels were seated at a small iron table. No questions were asked.

"You are found guilty of associating with revolutionary persons. You
were found possessing a passport not your own. You are sentenced to
be shot at sundown."

The whole thing appeared to me first as a joke, then as a bluff, but
looking closely into those high-cheekboned, narrow-eyed faces with the
characteristically close-cropped brutal heads, the humorous aspect
dwindled rapidly and I thought it about time to make a counter move.
Without betraying any of my inward qualms--and believe me, I began to
have some--I said quietly: