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they rob, never throw back letters and keys to a gentleman whom they despoil of his lighter trash. They just drag a man down from his saddle, seize upon his horse and arms, tear the clothes from his back, divide his money and his jewels, and then either stun him with a club or rope him to a tree. Before his senses can return to him, they are gone, with his horse, his gun, his boots, his shirt, and everything that was his. The story of the man who went down to Jericho and fell among thieves, is repeated in the neighbourhood of Jerusalem from day to day, so that the lesson of the parable never becomes stale.

Despite of his prayers and threats, the Frank physician was stripped and cuffed. Before his face the Bedaween rascals divided his effects; one getting his horse, a second his repeater, a third his coat, a fourth the contents of his saddle-bags. His hat alone seemed to give them pause; they could neither sit upon it, nor carry water in it, nor shoe horses with it; so they tossed it on the ground and left it, the most precious salvage in his wardrobe to the poor old man. Coming to his wits when they were gone, he began to retrace his steps. Staggering over the stones and through the sun, his feet all torn, his skin all scorched, he found his way, naked as the babe just born, to a peasant's hut, where he obtained a rag and a drink of water. Toiling through the night, now resting on a stone, now binding up his wounds in the coarse grass and planta genista, he reached the Damascus Gate before it was yet day, and sitting

down on a mound of earth, was there found, fainting and speechless, by the Turkish guard. At noon that day he died.

Such was the tale told by the Greek Prior, and every word of it proved to be true. Having told his story very well, and having frightened everybody, the Greek Prior says grace, and the company rises and shakes itself free from the glamour of his words.

Eight or ten friars are lounging on the convent roof; some finishing their prayers; some smoking cigarettes; some grinning over the wall at a colony of dogs, which are improving the cooler hour by fighting and making love. The Jew has gone to his cell, the Armenians are pacing their whitewashed court. Though the sun is still up, many of the guests are making ready for bed, for the horses are to be saddled at one, and the caravan is to move at two o'clock, so as to pass by El Kubâb, the most dangerous point on the road, by dark, reaching Latrûn, the ancient Modin, by the hour of dawn.

The air is warm, and the spirit languid. Ishmael sets a stool, a narghiley, a cup under a canopy of vines, and on a clap of the hands brings coffee and the charcoal fire. Two or three stragglers lounge on the convent roof, inhaling the Lebanon leaf and watching the sun go down into the sea. Half an hour after sunset Ramleh seems asleep, the silence being unbroken save by the drone of an insect or the snarl of a restless dog. Putting away the pipes, we take a last turn on the roof, a last peep over the wall. The fathers are issuing out of chapel and

The fire of the far

going into their cells. The dogs have crawled away under the prickly pears. west is fading into green and grey. A string of camels, led on by an ass' colt, is bobbing into the town. A veiled figure pauses for an instant like a spirit at our convent gate, and then flits by. The fans of a large palm tree sway and sigh; the tower of the White Mosque shines like a jewel in the dusk; and the evening stars throb slowly into lustrous life.

Good-night, good-night!

CHAPTER VI.

Night Ride to Modin.

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DREAMING Of Modin, and of all that this name of Modin had once meant in Israel revolt against Epiphanes, war, glory, nationality my hours of rest fly swiftly into midnight. About one o'clock (when the old priest had been laid in his princely tomb, and his heroic sons, having saved their country, and being crowned with every gift which their countrymen could lawfully bestow upon them, were about to seize into their own hands that sacred office which none but God could give away) Ishmael creeps into my cell and dissolves the dream.

Not as a right, but as a joke, one of the Italian padres has given Ishmael a tumbler of fluid for the Saxon's face, telling him that the Greek Prior and the Jew merchant, having more sense than to dip their noses into cold water of a morning, are already in the guest-room of the convent, waiting for breakfast, and in the absence of stronger fare are burning a bit of charcoal on a few shreds of Lebanon leaf. A meal of hot coffee, hard eggs, grapes, olives, white bread, and poor red wine, awaits us in the refectory, where Padre Angelo is moping round the table, his eyes half open and his soul asleep. At one in the night some thirty sinners sit down to eat and drink; a lamp of the pattern

found in Pompeii lighting the room with a red and fitful glare. Most of those who dined and made merry are again at table; but less talkative than they were last night; each man appearing as if he feels that with another day a new adventure has begun. Who among us can say where he will sleep to-night?

About two o'clock, saying our adieus to Angelo, who pockets his piastres and prays for our safe arrival in Jerusalem, Saïd, Yakoub and the rest of us file through the convent gate; man, horse, ass, and camel; making a caravan about seventy weak. Two or three ladies are supposed to have joined us; seated in panniers on their camels; but the night is too dark to see whether they are Frank or Oriental. A dozen friars, of various sects and head-gears, ride on donkeys in our wake. These gentlemen in serge had planned to be away from the convent by one o'clock, but the sight of two English revolvers, working on the suggestion of uneasy dreams, in which the Frank physician and his Bedaween plunderers had probably played their parts, induced the holy and nervous men to wait our going, and falling into the line of march, to take up a safe position between the baggage and its protecting fire.

Cool and fresh flows the morning wind upon our temples and through our lungs, as we escape from the pent lanes and streets of Ramleh into the open plain. A colony of dogs, waking up into life as we clatter through the eastern gate, greet our departure from their city with the same wild music that made our welcome. Sabeah jogs on drowsily in the dark,

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