erground by the melting of the perpetual
snow of the great mountain. Now and then we have to cross one of these
torrents, by a rude stone bridge or by wading. All along the way Hermon
looks down upon us from his throne, nine thousand feet in air. His head
is wrapped in a turban of spotless white, like a Druse chieftain, and
his snowy winter cloak still hangs down over his shoulders, though its
lower edges are already fringed and its seams opened by the warm suns of
April.

Presently we cross a bridge to the west bank of the Hasbani, and ride up
the delightful vale where poplars and mulberries, olives, almonds, vines
and figs, grow abundantly along the course of the river. There are low
weirs across the stream for purposes of irrigation, and a larger dam
supplies a mill with power. To the left is the sharp barren ridge of the
Jebel ez-Zohr separating us from the gorge of the River Litani. Groups
of labourers are at work on the watercourses among the groves and
gardens. Vine-dressers are busy in the vineyards. Ploughmen are driving
their shallow furrows through the stony fields on the hillside. The
little river, here in its friendliest mood, winds merrily among the
plantations and orchards which it nourishes, making a cheerful noise
over beds of pebbles, and humming a deeper note where the clear green
water plunges over a weir.

We have now been in the saddle five hours; the sun is ardent; the
temperature is above eighty-five degrees in the shade, and along the
bridle-path there is no shade. We are hungry, thirsty, and tired. As we
cross the river again, splashing through a ford, our horses drink
eagerly and attempt to lie down in the cool water. We have to use strong
persuasion not only with them, but also with our own spirits, to pass by
the green grass and the sheltering olive-trees on the east bank and push
on up the narrow, rocky defile in which Hasbeiya is hidden. The
bridle-path is partly paved with rough cobblestones, hard and slippery,
which make the going weariful. The heat presses on us like a burden.
Things that would have delighted us in the morning now give us no
pleasure. We have made the greedy traveller's mistake of measuring our
march by the extent of our endurance instead of by the limit of our
enjoyment.

Hasbeiya proves to be a rather thriving and picturesque town built
around the steep sides of a bay or opening in the valley. The
amphitheatre of hills is terraced with olive-orchards and vineyards.