oldiers, with the
appearance of partially reformed brigands, are acting as our guard, and
keeping the inquisitive spectators at a respectful distance. Our mules
and donkeys and horses are munching their supper in a row, tethered to a
long rope in front of the tents. Shukari, the cook, in his white cap and
apron, is gravely intent upon the operation of his little charcoal
range. Youssouf, the major-domo, is setting the table with flowers and
lighted candles in the dining-tent. After a while he comes to the door
of our sleeping-tents to inform us, with due ceremony, that dinner is
served; and we sit down to our repast in the midst of the swarming
Edomites and the wandering Zingari as peacefully and properly as if we
were dining at the Savoy.

The night darkens around us. Lights twinkle, one above another, up the
steep hillside of houses; above them are the tranquil stars, the lit
windows of unknown habitations; and on the hill-top one great planet
burns in liquid flame.

The crowd melts away, chattering down the road; it forms again, from
another quarter, and again dissolves. Meaningless shouts and cries and
songs resound from the hidden city. In the gypsy camp beside us insomnia
reigns. A little forge is clinking and clanking. Donkeys raise their
antiphonal lament. Dogs salute the stars in chorus. First a leader, far
away, lifts a wailing, howling, shrieking note; then the mysterious
unrest that torments the bosom of Oriental dogdom breaks loose in a
hundred, a thousand answering voices, swelling into a yapping, growling,
barking, yelling discord. A sudden silence cuts the tumult short, until
once more the unknown misery, (or is it the secret joy), of the canine
heart bursts out in long-drawn dissonance.

From the road and from the tents of the gypsies various human voices are
sounding close around us all the night. Through our confused dreams and
broken sleep we strangely seem to catch fragments of familiar speech,
phrases of English or French or German. Then, waking and listening, we
hear men muttering and disputing, women complaining or soothing their
babies, children quarrelling or calling to each other, in Arabic, or
Romany--not a word that we can understand--voices that tell us only that
we are in a strange land, and very far away from home, camping in the
heart of a wild city.

II

OVER THE BROOK JABBOK

After such a night the morning is welcome, as it breaks over the eastern
hill behind us, with rosy li