The horse-owner, voluble in Albanian, was trying
to get past them. His boy pressed behind him. Giorgio in the rear
had unslung his rifle and got it across the front of his saddle.
Far away they heard the sound of a shot, and a kind of shudder in
the air overhead witnessed to the flight of the bullet. They
crested a rise and suddenly between the tree boughs Monastir was in
view, a wide stretch of white town, with many cypress and plane
trees, a winding river with many wooden bridges, clustering minarets
of pink and white, a hilly cemetery, and scattered patches of
soldiers' tents like some queer white crop to supplement its
extensive barracks.
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.
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