We rose very early in the morning and started off on three miserable ponies gathered by our host from neighbouring mountain men. We had hardly proceeded two hundred yards when we were challenged by a Turkish post. A dilapidated blockhouse stood at the foot of the hill on which we had slept, and our slumbers would not have been so peaceful had either we or the Turks known of the others’ presence. The soldiers were unofficered and could not read, and an attitude of assurance, supported by our red seals, again passed us on.
The man who accompanied us to bring back the horses had just returned from Bulgaria, whither he had fled leaving a pretty wife and six small children.
‘Brute!’ observed the Man of Yorkshire.
‘Ah, well! One can always get another wife!’ said Sandy.
The mountain men had been able to give us only bread to put into our packs, but as we skirted Tsarevoselo, the peasant—who could enter the place without being noticed—went in and procured two large lumps of sugar. Sweetened bread and cool water from a fall made our lunch; after which we plodded on, until an hour after nightfall we entered Djuma-bala.
THE TURKISH QUARTER: DJUMA-BALA.
‘How long do you give the police?’ asked the Man of Yorkshire.
‘Fifteen minutes,’ I replied.
The first of them arrived in five.