The torrential stream had subsided into a babbling brook when we forded it, about eight o’clock, and boldly took the high road to Kotchana. We were weary of rough mountain paths, and kept this course until within dangerous proximity of the town, then struck off into the fields--this time rice fields. It was the season when the fields were flooded, and the only way across was by the tops of the embankments, which held us high to the view of anyone in the neighbourhood. We had gone too far to retrace our steps when we discovered we were in Turkish fields. We came suddenly to a dry patch of ground. A score or more Turkish women, their veils slung back over their shoulders, their loose black cloaks laid to one side, were working the ground in their gaudy bloomers. At sight of us there was a wild flutter for veils--but not a sound. We maintained our well-drilled blankness of expression and passed on, soldiers three, single file. I was in advance breaking through the weeds when I stumbled upon the husband of the harem. The bey was lying supine upon his back in the grass, a great umbrella shading his face. The rotund gentleman grunted, and slowly opened his eyes. He seemed uncertain for a moment whether I was man or nightmare, but when I spoke he knew he was awake. He scrambled to his feet, drew a great, gaudy revolver, and levelled it full in my face. Of course I did not pull my gun. I fell back, shouting quickly, as I had done on a previous occasion, ‘Inglese, Inglese effendi.’ Alexander to the rescue! That worthy, from a covered position in our rear, informed his Majesty the Mohamedan that we were English, as I had said. That we were foreign Christians was evident from the fact that we carried arms. The old Turk seemed rather ashamed of the fright he had displayed, and, slyly tucking his revolver into his red sash, stepped to one side and bowed us the right of way. This day we encountered many pitfalls. How we escaped one after another seemed so incredible to the Turkish authorities, when we were finally rounded up, that they seriously suspected we had come by an ‘underground’ route. We were afraid that the bey would hurry into Kotchana and inform the authorities that two strange Franks had passed, but as long as we could see him he still maintained his post, watching his women work. About three hours later, however, while we were enjoying a refreshing and much-needed wash in a cool mountain stream, Alexander keeping watch, a cavalry patrol of half a dozen men came up at full gallop. We had just time to duck behind a sandbank, almost beneath their horses’ hoofs. Towards midday Sandy waxed mutinous. He was a most submissive servant while we travelled like gentlemen, but his spirit rankled under the dangers into which he was led like a lamb. ‘If you are killed,’ he would frequently remark, ‘your parents will receive much money, but what will the Turkish Government give my poor mother?’ We had not been fair to Sandy.