In skirting Vinitza the boy lay down in a corn patch and refused to budge. The soles had again gone from his shoes, and now the soul could go from his body. He was resigned; all Bulgarians must be martyrs. The Turks could take him. Threats availed nothing; pleading was of no use. Finally we took his pack and carried it as well as our own, and promised to get a horse for him, by pay or intimidation, from the first unarmed Bulgarian we encountered. On this condition he struggled to his feet. Poor Sandy! the worst, for him, had not yet come. The peasants along our route this day were numerous, for it was market day at Vinitza, and we had no difficulty in hiring a horse for Alexander. Then, however, we became too conspicuous. We gathered fellow-travellers to the number of probably fifty, both Bulgars and Turks, who asked the usual innumerable questions. Sandy, in spite of all admonitions, would tell all he knew to whoever asked. We heard him say ‘Skopia,’ ‘Palanka,’ ‘Kratovo’ in his soft Slav way. We cussed Sandy, and he lied. He said he had not told them whence we had come. But he knew no more than the natives whither we were bound! A party of Turkish peasants, much armed, spurned Sandy, and would speak with us direct. When they discovered their dilemma their tone became surly and insulting. We passed through a long, narrow defile most fragrant with honeysuckle and wild roses, and occasional cool breaths from the pines on the slopes above came down to us. A sense of peace pervaded the place, and, growing accustomed to our company, we enjoyed the relief of a comparatively good road and no towns or encampments. But the pass came to an abrupt termination, and there at its mouth sat a band of twenty soldiers! For a few minutes things looked rather nasty, but our British and American passports, with their huge red seals, were so impressive to the ignorant soldiers that they feared to lay hands on us. They asked whither we were going, and we replied, ‘Towards Pechovo.’ But on falling behind the next hill in that direction we deserted our peasant following and struck off on our own route. This was the longest day’s track we made. We covered thirty miles in ten hours; during which our midday meal was off a loaf of bread bought for a metaleek from a peasant Turk. I gave him a piastre and he insisted on giving me change. We encountered a Bulgarian who lived on a hillside about an hour off, joined him, and wended our way to his hut for our last night in hiding. I owed the Man of Yorkshire still another mijidieh. We slept in the open, under a tree; the hut was too full.