Shortly after one o’clock we were on the climb again, up a decent path for once, which led over a big hill towards the town of Sletovo. A delightful town it appeared, as we looked down from behind a bush at the top of the hill. It was surrounded by tents, with even barracks to add a charm. The first sight of us from one of those tents by any intelligent soldier, and our trekking was over! By great luck a trail led off to the right, which seemed to skirt the tents entirely, and we picked our way cautiously down it, concealed by a shoulder of the hill. At the bottom the trail turned straight into the town. There was another path somewhere to the right leading away; but how to get to it? Just as we had made up our minds for a dash through some corn we came on the connecting link, a dry watercourse, and we were soon on the circular tour. But now, while keenly watching the tents to the left, an ancient tower--probably of Roman antiquity--appeared on our right front. Outside this, with his rifle leaning against the wall, squatted a sentry, dirgeing a dismal Oriental lay. He was not more than two hundred yards off, and commanded a view of our heads and shoulders above the corn; but there was nothing for it except to go ahead. I am confident that I watched that songster with one eye and the town on the opposite side with the other. For five minutes our fate hung on the balance. Our hats were unmistakable; no one but a man from civilisation wears anything with a brim to it in that part of the country. Once his dull eye was caught by our headgear we were booked. But the amiable creature sang on, his mind probably back in Anatolia; and we dropped out of sight to the next stream and took a big drink. Late that afternoon a few drops of rain came down, a delightful sensation to the parched and dusty ‘foot-slogger’; but presently this increased to sheets of water driven before a cold wind, and for half an hour we clung, soaked, to the slimy face of a bank, with little mud waterfalls dribbling down our necks. Then the storm blew over. The path, awkward at any time, was like a switchback skating-rink, down which we slid and staggered with horrible swoops and marvellous recoveries, to a boiling yellow torrent below, about as fordable as the Mississippi in flood. We had hoped to do a greater distance this day, but neither of us was sorry--though neither of us admitted it--that we had to seek shelter on this side of the stream. There was an attractive-looking place near at hand, but a forbidding minaret stood high above the poplars; and we pushed on to the first Christian village.