were worked out there which
have a permanent value to the spiritual life of man. Revelations were
made there which have become the guiding stars of succeeding
generations. This is why that country of the Bible seems more real to
us: because its history is more significant, because it is Divinely
inspired with a meaning for our faith and hope.

Do you agree with this? I do not know. But at least if you were with us
on this glorious morning, riding down from the heights of Jebel Osha you
would feel the vivid beauty, the subduing grandeur of the scene. You
would rejoice in the life-renewing air that blows softly around us and
invites us to breathe deep,--in the pure morning faces of the flowers
opening among the rocks,--in the light waving of silken grasses along
the slopes by which we steeply descend.

There is a young Gileadite running beside us, a fine fellow about
eighteen years old, with his white robe girded up about his loins,
leaving his brown legs bare. His head-dress is encircled with the black
_'agal_ of camel's hair like a rustic crown. A long gun is slung over
his back; a wicked-looking curved knife with a brass sheath sticks in
his belt; his silver powder-horn and leather bullet-pouch hang at his
waist. He strides along with a free, noble step, or springs lightly from
rock to rock like a gazelle.

His story is a short one, and simple,--if true. His younger brother has
run away from the family tent among the pastures of Gilead, seeking his
fortune in the wide world. And now this elder brother has come out to
look for the prodigal, at Nablus, at Jaffa, at Jerusalem,--Allah knows
how far the quest may lead! But he is afraid of robbers if he crosses
the Jordan Valley alone. May he keep company with us and make the
perilous transit under our august protection? Yes, surely, my brown son
of Esau; and we will not inquire too closely whether you are really
running after your brother or running away yourself.

There may be a thousand robbers concealed along the river-bed, but we
can see none of them. The valley is heat and emptiness. Even the jackal
that slinks across the trail in front of us, droops and drags his tail
in visible exhaustion. His lolling, red tongue is a signal of distress.
In a climate like this one expects nothing from man or beast. Life
degenerates, shrivels, stifles; and in the glaring open spaces a sullen
madness lurks invisible.

We are coming to the ancient fording-place of the river, called