At nightfall of the day after the fight the band resumed their march. The insurgents filed out of the woods in a long, single line, the local guide leading, and made their way to the edge of the next revolutionary district, where the chief thereof was awaiting them. They replenished their spent supply of ammunition from the secret stores of the villagers in the mountains, and proceeded on their way. Their course now was to the north-east, and they made tracks for their destination as straight as the Turkish camps and patrols would permit, arriving without further adventure at the friendly frontier. The Turkish guard would certainly be on the watch for the band, so the leader decided to cross the border close to one of the smaller posts, where, he judged, the patrols would be less active, not expecting such audacity. He selected a passing place within earshot of a blockhouse, which could be seen plainly in the moonlight. A sentinel sat in Turkish fashion before the door, wailing a doleful dirge through his nose, a way Turkish sentinels have. To the time of the Turk’s music the insurgent band filed over the border, guns loaded and cocked, bayonets fixed, and arrived in Kustendil, whence to Sofia their march was a triumphant procession. * * * * * I received orders late one evening to proceed at once to Sofia and prepare to accompany the Bulgarian army, which was mobilising on the Turkish frontier. I was glad to get this order, and obeyed instructions, though I knew there would be no war. The British Consul then secured a _passavant_ for me, by which I was described as a man of a round figure and black moustaches. In a civilised country my identity would have been challenged, but the instrument passed me over the Turkish border. The streets of Sofia were crowded with committajis, in brown uniforms, fur caps, white woollen leggings, and sandals. They were mostly members of General Tzoncheff’s committee who had fought along the Struma. Later, bands from Grueff’s organisation began to arrive. There were several leaders who had been prominent in the revolution. I sought the count again, and, with my old interpreter, spent many hours among the insurgents. They were generally to be found at the cheaper cafés, sitting over the rough tables recounting their adventures. It was at a café that I got the story of Sarafoff’s Trail. These soldiers of fortune had become indifferent to everything but revolution. They did not care how they looked or what they did, and a worse gang of beggars I never saw. Pride had flown. Work! Not they. They are hunters of men. [Illustration: COMMITTAJIS OFF DUTY.] APPENDIX THE MACEDONIAN COMMITTEES The following information regarding the Macedonian Committees was contained in a letter from General Tzoncheff to me. There are some eliminations, but no alterations in the text.--F. M.