We were once more in winter, deep snow lay along our path. There were several Yezeed villages by the track, which began to rise abruptly by the side of the river Murad, and was here and there cut out of the solid rock.
In many places waterfalls dashed over the path, and we were literally riding beneath a canopy of water, which fell, several hundred feet over precipices into the river below. At others the torrent dashed across the track itself. We had to advance with the greatest caution to avoid being swept down the abyss.
I now crossed the Melaskert river. Here our guide had a narrow escape of being carried away by the torrent. Presently we arrived at Tchekhane, an Armenian village, about eight miles distant from the town of Toprak Kale.
I had been suffering great pain during the last two marches, and, on dismounting from my horse, should have fallen to the ground, if it had not been for Mohammed.
The latter helped me to enter the house of my host, an Armenian peasant. Staggering up to the hearth, I threw myself down beside the fire. My legs seemed to have lost all their strength; I had great pain in the head and back. My pulse was beating very rapidly. It intermitted.
Thinking that it was an attack of fever, I desired Radford to give me the medicine-chest, and after taking ten grains of quinine, tried to sleep. This, however, was impossible—the insects in the house would have prevented slumber, even if the fever had not done so.
The night passed away. In the morning I found myself so weak that I could barely raise my head from the pillow.
"There is a doctor at Toprak Kale," observed my Armenian host. "He is a Frank: why not send for him?"
I did so; but the medical man did not arrive. I lay all that day racked by pain, and half devoured by insects.
In the morning I overheard the following conversation between Mohammed and the proprietor.