have been soaked with blood since ever time began.

Our halfway town was Vodena, which seemed, after the heat and dust of
the journey, like an oasis in the desert. Scores of streams, issuing
from the steep slopes of the encircling hills, race through the town in
a network of little canals and fling themselves from a cliff, in a
series of superb cascades, into the wooded valley below. Philip of
Macedon was born near Vodena, and there, in accordance with his wishes,
he was buried. You can see the tomb, flanked by ever-burning candles,
though you may not enter it, should you happen to pass that way. He
chose his last resting-place well, did the great soldier, for the
overarching boughs of ancient plane-trees turn the cobbled streets of
the little town into leafy naves, the air is heavy with the scent of
orange and oleander, and the place murmurs with the pleasant sound of
plashing water.

Beyond Vodena the road improved for a time and we fled southward at
greater speed, the telegraph poles leaping at us out of the yellow
dust-haze like the pikes of giant sentinels. At Alexander's Well, an
ancient cistern built from marble blocks and filled with crystal-clear
water, we paused to refill our boiling radiator, and paused again, a few
miles farther on, at the wretched, mud-walled village which, according
to local tradition, is the birthplace of the man who made himself master
of three continents, changed the face of the world, and died at
thirty-three.

Then south again, south again, across the seemingly illimitable plains,
until, topping a range of bare brown hills, there lay spread before us
the gleaming walls and minarets of that city where Paul preached to the
Thessalonians. To the westward Olympus seemed to verify the assertions