We sailed down the Adriatic from Trieste, bound for Greece, the mountains of Albania often visible, and we touched, among Italian and other ports, at Hagio Saranda. The place has as many names--Albanian, Turkish, Slav, Italian, German--as it has houses. The Austrian-Lloyd steamer dropped anchor in the bay, and several queer, unwieldy row-boats--small barges--came up alongside for a few boxes of Austrian goods. The ship lay at anchor an hour, and we went ashore. The same cringing, unarmed Christians, the same swaggering Albanians, the same suspicious officials and ragged soldiers. The Turks bowed politely as we landed, and asked questions. We were going down the shore to take a bath. ‘This is a small town, effendi; we are sorry there is no bath here.’ We were not searching a Turkish bath, and we explained by signs that we were going out to swim. ‘But, effendi, you have not sufficient time.’ We knew we had. The argument lasted some time longer, until we broke off rudely, leaving the officials talking. They did not stop us, but ordered all the soldiers to follow and see what our object really was; and they stood behind bushes and rocks from which they could watch us, and also cover any insurgents with whom we might have rendezvous. CHAPTER XII THE LONG TRAIL There was excuse for us to cross Macedonia. Twenty-five thousand peasants from Turkey had taken refuge in Bulgaria, and no correspondent had personal knowledge of the state of affairs that caused this exodus. The Man of Yorkshire and I got together again and appointed a day to start on the journey we had planned long since. We instructed Alexander the Bulgar to appear on the morning with a pair of socks in his pocket. Alexander had the temerity to ask the reason for luggage. We gave him no hint. Alexander was not safe enough to be trusted with the secret. Again we hired a carriage with a Turkish driver to take us to Kalkandele; and again we succeeded in getting out of town while the Turks dozed, bound in an opposite direction. To Egri-Palanka, the frontier town at which we proposed to leave the carriage and take to our legs, was a two days’ journey. We spent the intervening night at a lone khan, miles away from any other habitation. The Turk protested, and attempted to draw up at a Turkish blockhouse, but by vigorous methods we got the horses past this danger spot at a pace which did not give the Turkish officer time to make up his mind. [Illustration: WAYFARERS AT A ROADSIDE FOUNTAIN: TURKS.]