As they hurried down towards this city of refuge a long string of mules burthened with great bales of green stuff appeared upon a convergent track to the left.  Besides the customary muleteers there were, by way of an escort, a couple of tattered Turkish soldiers.  All these men watched the headlong approach of Benham’s party with apprehensive inquiry.  Giorgio shouted some sort of information that made the soldiers brighten up and stare up the hill, and set the muleteers whacking and shouting at their convoy.  It struck Amanda that Giorgio must be telling lies about a Bulgarian band.  In another moment Benham and Amanda found themselves swimming in a torrent of mules.  Presently they overtook a small flock of fortunately nimble sheep, and picked up several dogs, dogs that happily disregarded Benham in the general confusion.  They also comprehended a small springless cart, two old women with bundles and an elderly Greek priest, before their dusty, barking, shouting cavalcade reached the outskirts of Monastir.  The two soldiers had halted behind to cover the retreat.

Benham’s ghastly face was now bedewed with sweat and he swayed in his saddle as he rode.  “This is not civilization, Amanda,” he said, “this is not civilization.”

And then suddenly with extraordinary pathos: 

“Oh!  I want to go to bed!  I want to go to bed!  A bed with sheets. . . .”

To ride into Monastir is to ride into a maze.  The streets go nowhere in particular.  At least that was the effect on Amanda and Benham.  It was as if Monastir too had a temperature and was slightly delirious.  But at last they found an hotel—­quite a civilized hotel. . . .

The doctor in Monastir was an Armenian with an ambition that outran his capacity to speak English.  He had evidently studied the language chiefly from books.  He thought these was pronounced “theser” and those was pronounced “thoser,” and that every English sentence should be taken at a rush.  He diagnosed Benham’s complaint in various languages and failed to make his meaning clear to Amanda.  One combination of words he clung to obstinately, having clearly the utmost faith in its expressiveness.  To Amanda it sounded like, “May, Ah!  Slays,” and it seemed to her that he sought to intimate a probable fatal termination of Benham’s fever.  But it was clear that the doctor was not satisfied that she understood.  He came again with a queer little worn book, a parallel vocabulary of half-a-dozen European languages.

He turned over the pages and pointed to a word.  “May!  Ah!  Slays!” he repeated, reproachfully, almost bitterly.

“Oh, measles!” cried Amanda. . . .

So the spirited honeymoon passed its zenith.

11

The Benhams went as soon as possible down to Smyrna and thence by way of Uskub tortuously back to Italy.  They recuperated at the best hotel of Locarno in golden November weather, and just before Christmas they turned their faces back to England.