de la Transfiguration, now in charge of the learned Père Barnabé, O.F.M., Missionaire Apostolique, and an assistant brother. The Father had not returned from some expedition when we arrived, but, upon presenting our introduction, his subordinate entertained us kindly.

We inquired at once for the fresh horses that our American friend had so generously promised to send to meet us here. Our chagrin may be imagined when we learned that these horses arrived on the previous day, but, as we were not there, had returned to Nazareth, or, for aught we knew, to Jerusalem. Indeed this was nothing short of a blow to us, since to attempt the journey across the plain of Esdraelon and the mountains beyond upon our weary crocks would be a bold undertaking. What made the disappointment more tiresome also, was the certainty that it had not been brought about by chance since, to our knowledge, the dragoman in charge of the horses had received strict and full orders from his employer as to when and where he was to meet Unfortunately, however, the American gentleman, in his forethought and generosity, had impressed upon us that we were to pay nothing for these horses, an injunction which, of course, we intended to disregard. Without doubt he had told the dragoman, or owner, the same thing, whereon that astute Eastern, not knowing our intentions, fulfilled the letter of the law, but broke its spirit. That is to say, he came to meet us, but on the wrong day, and forthwith vanished, so far as we are concerned, for ever.

us.

CHAPTER XVII

TABOR, CARMEL, AND ACRE

LACKING other consolations in our sad circumstance, we took such comfort as we could from tea and the old saying about tears and spilt milk, after which we set out to see the ruins. Both that afternoon and for three hours on the following morning in the company of Father Barnabé, I examined these various and fascinating relics very closely. I do not, however, propose to attempt any detailed description of them; first because it would occupy too much space, and secondly, for the reason that this has already been done in a fashion which I could not hope to rival, by Father Barnabé himself, in his work Le Mont Thabor (J. Mersch, Paris).

These ruins, that are surrounded first by the remains of the encircling and ancient wall built by Flavius Josephus, the Jewish historian of the Roman wars, which protected the whole top of the mountain, and, secondly, with the broken fortifications reared by the Saracens and destroyed by them also between 1211 and 1217, may for the present purpose be roughly divided into two parts, that lying to the west of the modern Latin monastery, and that which extends to the east. To the west, at the foot of the garden and beyond it, are caves which at some period probably served as tombs, but were afterwards, doubtless during the first few centuries of the Christian era, used as the habitations of hermits. In certain of these can still be seen benches hollowed in the rock, where year by year some long departed saint rested his weary bones, and other

little hollows outside, which the rain filled to serve him with drinking water.

It is strange to look at these wretched places and reflect upon the passionate prayers, the nightly vigils, the pious but in my view mistaken purposes that hallow them. What a life it must have been which the old devotees endured for decades in those damp holes. There is something pitiable in that tale of useless sacrifice. Yet in their way, how good they were, these men who deserted the real, if fleeting and uncertain, pleasures that the world has to offer to its sons, in order to wear out their lives thus, like lichens withering upon an inhospitable wall, till at length some brother anchorite found them stiff in their self-appointed tombs. When they were dead others took their places, and so at intervals of ten, or twenty, or fifty years, others and yet others till the custom perished, and its scant memorials writ in stone were covered with the dust of generations, in due season to be reopened and read by us to-day. God rest them all, poor men, whom the bitterness of life, the fear of death, and a hope of some ultimate transcendent remedy drove to such spiritual, and physical, expedients.

Beyond, or rather between, these hermit cells lies an ancient cemetery whereof Father Barnabé has excavated many of the graves. These are very curious, and, as he believes, contain the remains of some of the 50,000 people who took refuge here from the Romans in the time of Josephus. They are dug out to about the depth of six feet, and lined with rough stones, among which have been found a few fragments of skeletons and some coins of the Roman period. Another very curious relic is a sloping cement slab in what evidently has been a chamber with conveniences for the heating of water, which the Père Barnabé surmises-and after examination I agree with him-was used for the ceremonial washing of corpses before they were consigned to earth. What sights and sorrows must this place have seen.

Then there are what appear to have been winepresses, with hollows at a lower level for the collection of the must, and great cemented cisterns where rainwater was, and is still, gathered, dating, it is thought, from the time of the Saracens. Beyond all these lie the wrecks of a Levitical settlement.

So much for the western side.

Passing through a kind of gateway to the east the visitor finds himself among whole acres of tumbled ruins. Here was the fortress built by the Benedictines during the twelfth century-I think that Saladin massacred them all. Here, too, were the monasteries of various orders, with their refectories, kitchens, sleeping-rooms, and baths built on the Turkish plan. One can even see where they warmed the water; indeed it is on record that the frequent use of this luxurious form of bath by these monks caused something of a scandal. Especially noticeable are the remains of a great and lofty hall, believed to have been the chapter-room of the Benedictines, and a chapel that I suppose belonged to this order, found to be floored with beautiful mosaic. This, however, has been covered up again to prevent the Russian pilgrims, who are very troublesome in such respects, from carrying it away piecemeal.

Many are the far mementoes of the past which I omit, as I despair of describing them in a clear and satisfactory fashion. Let us go on to the great basilica, first built by order of the Empress Helena, with its sister but inferior chapels on either side, supposed to have been dedicated to Moses and Elias. It is a long building with a round apse, which has been disinterred in recent years. At the eastern extremity of this apse stands an altar built up again of the rough original stones and surmounted by a plain, iron cross. This altar, placed upon the extreme verge of the mountain, is by immemorial report believed to mark the spot where our Saviour stood during the occurrence of the ineffable event of the Trans

figuration. Who can look at it unmoved? Anciently it was roofed in, now in its simple loneliness it stands open to the heavens, and thus, to my mind, gains in dignity and suggestiveness. The tendency in the Holy Land is to cover every sacred site with some tawdry dome. I prefer the infinite arc of the skies, and for decoration the wild flowers and creeping ferns and grasses which grow amid the mouldering stones. Once the southern walls of this basilica were heaped with Saracenic towers and fortifications. Now it and these have come to an equal ruin.

At the fall of night, through the midst of torrential rain driven in sheets by a violent gale of wind, I went out and stood alone upon the broken wall of one of these ancient towers, till darkness overtook me, and the gusts became so fierce that on that narrow, perilous place, I grew afraid to match my strength against their fury. Beneath me stretched the vast plain of Esdraelon looking extraordinarily grand and gloomy in the dull lights of that rushing storm. There to the right was the territory of Zebulun; to the left the land of Issachar; behind the country of Naphtali; yonder soared the point of little Hermon, and beyond all rose the crest of Mount Gilboa. Suddenly revealed in swift glimpses to be as suddenly lost to sight, it was indeed a majestic prospect, but nothing there moved me so much as that desolate altar and the iron cross which stood

in the dim apse beneath. It would be hard for any man to set down the thoughts that strike him in such a scene and hour. I will not attempt the task further than to say that this one lonely experience repaid me for all the toil and difficulties of my visit to Syria.

Two falcons were nesting, or preparing to nest, among the stones of the tower. My advent disturbed them. With wild screams they swept around me, and the presence of these creatures seemed as it were to complete,