e passed a miserable little village of thatched
mud huts, almost hidden by the rank weeds which grew around them. A
withered old crone sat at one of the doors, sunning herself. "What is the
name of this village?" I asked. "It is Mejdel," was her reply. This was
the ancient Magdala, the home of that beautiful but sinful Magdalene,
whose repentance has made her one of the brightest of the Saints. The
crystal waters of the lake here lave a shore of the cleanest pebbles. The
path goes winding through oleanders, nebbuks, patches of hollyhock,
anise-seed, fennel, and other spicy plants, while, on the west, great
fields of barley stand ripe for the cutting. In some places, the Fellahs,
men and women, were at work, reaping and binding the sheaves. After
crossing this tract, we came to the hill, at the foot of which was a
ruined khan, and on the summit, other undistinguishable ruins, supposed by
some to be those of Capernaum. The site of that exalted town, however, is
still a matter of discussion.

We journeyed on in a most sweltering atmosphere over the ascending hills,
the valley of the Upper Jordan lying deep on our right. In a shallow
hollow, under one of the highest peaks, there stands a large deserted
khan; over a well of very cold; sweet water, called _Bir Youssuf_ by the
Arabs. Somewhere near it, according to tradition, is the field where
Joseph was sold by his brethren; and the well is, no doubt, looked upon by
many as the identical pit into which he was thrown. A stately Turk of
Damascus, with four servants behind him, came riding up as we were resting
in the gateway of the khan, and, in answer to my question, informed me
that the well was so named from Nebbee Youssuf (the Prophet Joseph), and
not from Sultan Joseph Saladin. He took us for his countrymen, accosting
me first in Turkish, and, even after I had talked with him some time in
bad Arabic, asked me whether I had been making a pilgrimage to the tombs
of certain holy Moslem saints, in the neighborhood of Jaffa. He joined
company with us, however, and shared his pipe with me, as we continued our
journey. We rode for two hours more over hills bare of trees, but covered
thick with grass and herbs, and finally lost our way. Francois went ahead,
dashing through the fields of barley and lentils, and we reached the path
again, as the Waters of Merom came in sight. We then descended into the
Valley of the Upper Jordan, and encamped opposite the lake, at Ain
el-Mellaha (th