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.
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