University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

Pass over now the preparations for journeying, and behold
our travellers on their route to Damascus. A pilgrim
band, winding single file over a precipitous pass, furnishes a
picturesque scene in any mountain-land. In Lebanon, to
follow such a company is to turn the pages of a gilded
romance. Nature unfolds all her treasures, and tells a story
of every clime. Grandeur and softness, ruggedness and
beauty, richness and desolation, alternate in the tale, and the
moving figures in the foreground of the panorama lend interest
and life to the whole. Here the gay trappings of horses
and mules, the flowing robes of guides and dragomans, contrast
with a heavy background of gray rock or pine; there
the little procession has come out into the sunlight, which
flashes back from silver-mounted bridles, sabre-hilts, and
glittering gun-barrels. As men and animals wind along the
brow of some steep acclivity, the minute outlines of their
forms are defined against the clear blue sky; as they descend
into the shady wady or rocky ravine the procession
is lost to sight, to reappear at some unexpected cleft in the
mountain-side.

The bridle-path was intricate, but well known to the
inhabitants of the district, and two native muleteers led the
van of M. Trefoil's party. Beside the animals which they
rode, each had charge of a sumpter mule, laden with the
cumbrous equipment essential on a Syrian journey, where

no way-side inn awaits the traveller. Meredith followed,
mounted on the jet-black Arab horse which had been the
companion of many months' wandering, and was obedient
to the slightest word of its rider. When he and Abdoul forsook
both baggage and saddle-horses to join the funeral
train of Ianthe, all their steeds made instant escape in the
direction of the desert, and it was in pursuance of their
tracks that, later in the evening, Abdoul likewise fled from
El Fureidîs; but long before the youth reappeared to report
only partial success in the recovery of his master's property,
the faithful Arabian horse had made its way back to El
Fureidîs, had recognized the Englishman, had rubbed its
graceful head against his shoulder, and with a coaxing eye
entreated to be taken once more into his service.

A somewhat heavily-built nag served the turn of M. Trefoil,
whom habit had never made a good horseman, and who
loved a sober steed. The good man's breath came short,
and his otherwise voluble tongue was effectually silenced by
the jolting exercise of the road, except as he occasionally
gathered voice for an anxious inquiry or a sudden expression
of alarm, caused by the difficulties of the path; but
Meredith's experience and encouragement came constantly
to his aid, and the courage and endurance which had flagged
in the outset gained strength as he proceeded.

Nothing could have been in greater contrast to the corpulent
figure and timid horsemanship of M. Trefoil than the
erect and dignified posture of M. Lapierre, who rode with
the easy grace of an ancient cavalry officer,—reining in
a fractious horse with one hand, while with the other he
pointed out to Havilah the most striking features of the
prospect.

Havilah's attention was divided between the conversation
of M. Lapierre and anxiety for her father, while at intervals

her mind was abstracted from both by the necessity of
soothing and checking her spirited gray mare, the same
which had been Meredith's legacy to her on leaving El Fureidîs,
and which, now curvetting and frisking like a young
colt, continually strove to break from the line of march,
shaking its silken mane, curling its nostrils disdainfully, and
casting from its chestnut eye an oblique, intelligent glance
at its mistress, which seemed to say, “This is tedious business
for you and me, pretty one!”

Geita, who had pleaded hard for the indulgence of a visit
to the Eastern capital, and had boasted of her ability to
endure fatigue, began to droop in the saddle. She had
assumed not a few coquettish airs on bidding adieu to her
fellow-servants; but either her spirits had become exhausted
with travel, or this once vagabond child of a Turkish
janizary already missed the society of Bachmet, over
whom, in virtue of her Osmanli parentage, she was accustomed
to exercise a species of petty tyranny, equally agreeable
to both parties.

Meredith's travelling accoutrement brought up the rear
of the mountain caravan. It consisted, independently of
Abdoul, of three armed men, and twice that number of
horses. The men were Arabs, stragglers of Sheik Zanadeen's
tribe, and associates of Abdoul, in company with
whom they had recently come to El Fureidîs. They were
wild, ill-visaged fellows, but expert riders, and glad for a
trifling compensation to engage in the service of the Frank,
and take charge of the pack-horses; the latter having been
found indispensable for the transportation of those luxuries
of Eastern travel which Meredith's experience had proved
necessary, and the deficiency of which in the provisioning of
the party he had foreseen and guarded against.

Abdoul, nominal guide and dragoman of the expedition,

came last of all. His services for the time superseded by
those of the skilful mountaineers of the district, he was at
liberty to manifest that dogged indifference which well became
his humor. He seemed, indeed, to have infused his
sulkiness into the Khádhere, which hung her head, and
trailed along with slow, unwilling pace, as if reluctant to engage
in the proposed enterprise, or accept the companionship
forced upon her.

For more than three hours the travellers pursued a
northeasterly direction, the road a mere mountain goat-track,
and the heat of the sun (for it was now the month
of May) becoming towards midday blinding and oppressive.
Their first destination was Kubb Elias, at which
point they were to strike the route of the semi-weekly post
from Beyrout to Damascus. A morning ride across the
highlands of the Lebanon is sufficient to weary the sturdiest
horsemen, and it was with no little satisfaction that our
party, on gaining an elevated point, beheld at a little distance
a ruined castle and a flowing stream of water, both
of which were landmarks to the adjacent village. An
easy and quick descent brought the cavalcade to the desired
halting-place. Soon, horses were picketed, luncheon-baskets
unpacked, and beside the clear stream, beneath a grove of
spreading poplars, the tired company found rest, refreshment,
and shade.

They had now gained the borders of the fertile plain of
the Bekaa, luxuriant in verdure and grain-crops. Mejdel,
at which place they proposed encamping for the night, was
visible in the distance. A journey of several hours intervened,
but the road was level, the ride easy, and the
temptation to linger in the pleasant gardens of Kubb Elias
irresistible. It was not until long after noon, therefore, that
the party were again in the saddle.

The nature of the route no longer compelled them to
move in single file, as had been the case during the morning.
They preserved scarcely less uniformity, however, in
their grouping, Meredith still maintaining a close proximity
to M. Trefoil, and seeming wholly engrossed with his
society; Havilah, whose mare had learned to subdue her
paces, riding leisurely between M. Lapierre and Abdoul.
The morose mood of the latter had been sensibly ameliorated
by Havilah's considerate kindness, and his taciturnity
had yielded to the efforts of M. Lapierre, who, pitying the
youth's isolated position in the company, had beckoned him
alongside, and contrived to make him a partner in the
conversation, which, as it turned chiefly upon localities and
routes, was one in which the desert rover was well fitted
to bear a part.

An hour and a half of steady riding brought our travellers
to a branch of the Litany, which coursed lazily through
the plain. They crossed it by means of a modern-built
bridge, journeyed on through fields of wheat and barley
for two hours more, and just at sunset gained the village
which was their destination for the night. It was an unpromising
place, made hideous by the poverty and filth
of its inhabitants, the vermin that overrun their houses, and
the barking of inhospitable dogs.

M. Trefoil's horse had flagged considerably towards the
latter end of the day's journey, leaving his rider and the
faithful Englishman a little in the rear of their party. By
the time they gained the village, M. Lapierre, Abdoul, and
the attendant muleteers had dismounted, and were surrounded
by a swarm of peasants, all of whom were eager
to make over the discomforts of their dwellings to the well-accoutred
travellers.

“Do not alight, I beg of you,” said Meredith to Havilah,

who still remained in the saddle, reluctant to commit herself
to the tender mercies of some wrinkled hags who were
beckoning to her from the low doorways. “There is no
tolerable place of shelter here; I am confident we can
manage better for ourselves;”—and, springing from his
horse, he approached Father Lapierre, and addressed to him
a few eager words. M. Lapierre listened attentively, following
the direction of Meredith's finger, which pointed to
a picturesque ruin on a hill at a little distance. Abdoul was
then reluctantly drawn into the council, a low decisive word
was whispered in the ear of M. Trefoil, signs were made to
the muleteers, and in an instant all had remounted, Meredith
had grasped the bridle of Havilah's mare, which had
become restive in the confusion, and the whole party had
galloped off in the direction of the ruined temple, followed
by the howls of the infuriated dogs and the hooting of the
disappointed peasantry.

Among other cumbrous articles of convenience Meredith
had not neglected to bring with him his travelling tents.
The process of encamping is usually in the East noisy and
confused; but the skill of Abdoul and the resolute energy
of Meredith had reduced it to a system, so that to choose a
spot, unload the mules, and erect the temporary lodging,
involved scarcely more time or trouble than that employed
by the host of an English inn in arranging a guest-room for
the squire of a neighboring parish.

While active preparations for the night are going forward
beneath the shadow of the ancient temple, and M.
Trefoil has seated himself to watch the proceedings, we will
follow M. Lepierre, Meredith, and Havilah, who are improving
the half-hour of twilight by inspecting the interesting
ruin, which, situated on the summit of a little tell
overlooking Mejdel, challenges the curiosity of the traveller.

“This, then, is a remnant of ancient Chalcis,” said Meredith
in a musing tone, as his eye wandered from the imposing
masonry of the temple walls to the graceful Ionic
columns, half overgrown with ivy, which lay scattered in
every direction. “And these massive monoliths and broken
shafts are specimens of an architecture even more remote
than that of Baalbee and Palmyra.”

“You are right in respect to time, though not strictly so
in point of locality,” answered M. Lapierre. “This is
doubtless the ruin of a structure erected by some prince of
Chaleis, and its site is included in the rich province of
which the city was the capital; but look yonder,”—and M.
Lapierre pointed to a few blackened heaps scarcely distinguishable
in the distance; “there, to the northeast of us,
almost overlaid with rubbish and vegetation, are the sole
remains of a city over which Ptolemies and Herods have
been proud to bear sway. Two or three miserable hovels
with their wretched occupants now represent the wealth and
royalty of an almost forgotten past.”

“But nature was never more royal than now,” exclaimed
Havilah. “Hermon is still a king. See how his diadem
glistens in the western sunlight. See how, all over the
plain, the waving grain bends to do him homage.”

“The foundations of the everlasting hills cannot be removed,”
said Father Lapierre, impressively. “Hermon
has witnessed the rise and fall of many dynasties. The
great ages do the bidding of the Lord; the mountains are
his silent watchmen. Another cycle of God's providence has
nearly run its course in this land; but Hermon looks calmly
on, as if conscious of the Almighty hand which, when it
has reaped its harvest, will delay not to sweep the stubble
from the soil.”

“You speak of the power of Ottoman misrule,” said
Meredith.

“I do. It needs no prophetic eye to see that this age is
ripe, and that Syria is soon destined to be rid of her tyrant.
I look confidently forward to the time when men shall cease
to curse the land which God has blessed,—when commerce
shall flourish on our shores, agriculture disclose the teeming
wealth of the soil, and Christianity flourish in the land of
its nativity.”

“You believe, then, in a national progress, of which there
are as yet but faint indications,” remarked Meredith.

“I must confess that, during my sojourn in the land, nothing
has impressed me so forcibly as the primitive usages of
the people, and their neglect of the natural opportunities
which the country affords. The village where you and M.
Trefoil have labored so successfully, is one of those few
exceptions which prove, rather than contradict, the general
rule.”

“True, my son; but you must remember that Syria has
been trampled on for centuries by a succession of tyrants.
The present government is a mere system of bribery and
exaction. No country can develop itself internally, so long
as it is the victim of foreign oppression. But the present
state of things cannot continue. It is a stirring and
an eventful age. Already men's eyes are turned upon us.
Western Europe and enterprising America are emulating
each other in their beneficent labors in this direction. Science
is sounding our harbors, calculating the height of our
mountains, surveying our wildernesses, and taking the measure
of our streams; and religion lends her aid and sanction
to the work, for a faithful band of Christian missionaries
are in the van of the reforming army. Asia, until now a
jealous recluse, is flinging open her doors to the stranger.
Syria is the key to the whole continent; and who can question
that the son of the West will make for himself a high-way

through her deserts? Ignorance and tyranny must
stand aside at his coming. The oppressor shall then be
dethroned. God stands at the helm, and holds the nations
in the hollow of his hand. He will remove the diadem,
and take off the crown, and exalt him that is low, and abase
him that is high. He will overturn, overturn, overturn,
until he come whose right it is.

“Even in the desolation around me,” continued the old
man, with the enthusiasm of one inspired by his subject,
“I see the foundation of future prosperity; this land, deeply
furrowed by the plough of disaster, is to me a rich soil,
beneath which a seed of promise is ready to sprout and
thrive. But you have not watched our present crumbling
institutions as I have, Mr. Meredith, nor calculated the
innate resources of our country. I can scarcely expect you
to share my faith in Syria.”

“Perhaps not,” replied Meredith, thoughtfully; “for faith
comes by knowledge, and my faith I confess is but partial.
I can see destruction,” and he stretched out both hands, as if
to embrace the surrounding prospect, “but where is the
harvest? One need not go far to encounter ruin, but to the
fruits of it I acknowledge I am blind.”

“Nevertheless, it is a law of God's providence,” said
Father Lapierre, “that the ruin of the old shall serve as a
foundation for the new. That prostrate wall”—and he
pointed to a gigantic layer of stones—“may yet prove
material for another generation's use; those massive columns
may grace the portal to some nobler structure. Remember,
my son, that the fairest temple the world ever knew was
stricken for man's offences, to become the chief corner-stone
of the church on earth; and this sacrifice was a type of what
has been and shall be to the end of time,—the outward
perisheth, but the inward is renewed day by day.”

“Yes, day by day,” mused Meredith aloud, “gradually,
imperceptibly, as if to test our faith. Destruction cometh
like a whirlwind,—the repair is slow. Syria has long been
a waste, but I trust there is an unfulfilled promise for her
still. God and his servants hasten on the day, for indeed
she is a goodly land.”

The short twilight had nearly faded away; the crest of
Hermon alone glistened with the last purple rays; the stars
had shot out all over the sky, brilliant, beautiful, as stars of
the Orient alone can be; the plain shimmered in their radiance
like a swelling sea; the mounds that dot its surface
reared themselves like islands in the deep; the figures
mounted on the ruinous moulding of the temple wall were
dimly visible even to one another. The whole scene was
grand, illusive, shadowy. It favored meditation, and the
thoughts of all soared awhile on the wings of silence,—a
silence which was suddenly broken by a voice just behind
the group saying, in an earnest tone, “Sing, Havilah, sing;
it is the hour!”

“Havilah turned her head slightly, saw her father, who
had noiselessly climbed the wall, and, responding at once to
his request, sang sweetly and without hesitation:—

The effect of the song was at once solemn and inspiring.
It was as if they had been at worship in the temple, and the
service was ended. All now turned to depart. M. Trefoil
stumbled slightly among the loose stones; and M. Lapierre,
who was nearest him, proffered a supporting arm. Havilah
still stood upon the wall; Meredith held out his hand to
assist her descent. She needed no such aid, but accepted
the courtesy, and they returned together to the tent.

“Thank you,” said Meredith, “for my share in your
music. The pure in heart have visions, and see prophecies
amidst the clouds which wrap grosser senses in darkness.
Bless you for your song of promise and cheer. The
mind may grope among doubts and fears, but harmonies
touch the soul.”

“Because they are true,” said Havilah.

“You are right,” responded Meredith, meditatively.
“Truth is an inspiration and a harmony. Falsehood only
is a discord. Ah!” he exclaimed, stopping short, and looking
anxiously at Havilah, “why do you start thus?”

“A sudden fear,” said Havilah, hastily. “It is past,” she
added, with forced calmness of tone, but trembling visibly.
She had caught sight of two panther-like eyes, glaring
from a hollow in the rocks. Wild beasts often prowl among
the descrted ruins of Syria, and for a moment she believed
such an one about to spring upon her; but with the next
glance she had recognized Abdoul, crouching like a beast
in his lair, and evidently playing the spy. Her first cause
of alarm was dissipated, it is true, to be succeeded by another
scarcely less appalling, as she detected the savage,

fiery leer with which the boy's eyes were fastened, not upon
herself, but her companion.

“Something startled you. You were not alarmed without
cause,” said Meredith, pausing to look about him. He
saw nothing, however.

“It is so dark here,” suggested Havilah; “one imagines
strange things in the dark,”—and she made a movement
to hurry on.

“Yes; and your nerves have been tried too much of late.
Besides, it is growing cold. The tent-fire will be welcome;
let us hasten in;”—and, drawing her cloak around her, and
placing her hand within his arm, he conducted her with
kind, almost brotherly tenderness, to a small tent pitched
without the ruins, and intended for her own and Geita's
accommodation.

“What could she have seen or fancied?” he said to himself,
as he retraced his steps among the ruins, and sought
diligently for some object of alarm; but the place was by
this time deserted, and after a fruitless examination he
returned to his own tent, where supper was spread, and
Abdoul was innocently occupied in preparing coffee.

Dawn, the next morning, found M. Trefoil on the alert.
Exercise and fresh air were already invigorating him; his
wonted activity was to some degree restored. He felt himself
the responsible leader of a company, and with officious
zeal hurried about the little encampment, exhorting all to be
in readiness for an early start. The advice was seasonable,
for the day promised to be warm. No time, therefore, was
lost; and after a hasty breakfast, which consisted merely of
the remnants of last night's repast, the majority of the party
mounted, and set forth under the guidance of M. Trefoil's
Syrian attendants, Abdoul and the men of his tribe being
left to strike the tents and follow.

For an hour the road lay between gently sloping hills,
densely shaded with oak and hawthorn; then across a
dreary, ill-cultivated plain, overshadowed by a rugged
mountain-range. At the farther extremity of this plain
the little cavalcade halted, to await the arrival of Abdoul
and Meredith's men, being anxious to muster in full force
before entering Wady el Kurn (Valley of the Horn), a narrow
pass haunted by lawless bandits, and associated with
many a deed of blood.

“Would it not be prudent to send Abdoul on in advance?”
questioned Havilah, glancing down the dark, tortuous
windings of the glen, then shuddering slightly as she
watched the rapid approach of the Arab horsemen, whose
sinister faces, and black elf-locks fluttering in the breeze,
imparted to them a forbidding appearance. “Abdoul has
a keen scent of danger, and knows the way perfectly,” she
added, as if auxious to apologize for a proposition which
seemed uncalled for.

The remark was addressed to Father Lapierre, though
intended for Meredith, to whom it was equally audible.

“There is no possibility of mistaking the path,” said M.
Lapierre, decidedly. “We have only to follow the bed of
the torrent at the bottom of the ravine, and there are too
many elements of safety in our party for us to dread a lurking
enemy.”

Meredith said nothing, but he marked the disturbance
evinced in Havilah's features. He could not account for
the fears of one usually so courageous; but he had a chivalrous
respect for them, nevertheless. “Take the lead, Abdoul,”
was his somewhat imperious command to the youth,
who, as the company filed off, showed a disposition to linger
in the rear. The boy gave an angry look at his master, a
searching one at Havilah, then sulkily obeyed the mandate.

Havilah's undefined fears were relieved, as she thus saw
all communication cut off between the young chief and the
men of his tribe, who with their pack-horses were destined
to bring up the line; she had no dread of the ordinary
perils which have given an ill repute to Wady el Kurn.

It was nevertheless a place to test the traveller's courage.
M. Trefoil counselled rapid riding. M. Lapierre's keen eye
pierced a little anxiously within the thick copsewood which
lined the narrow pass. Meredith drew out his pistols, and
kept as close to Havilah as the nature of the ground would
permit.

This critical part of their route, however, was compassed
without any other adventure or cause of alarm than the
momentary trepidation occasioned by Geita, who, when
about midway in the pass startled the whole party by a
succession of shricks, and the positive declaration that she
saw men prowling on the heights above and heard the report
of a rifle. As the expected assailants proved to be a
couple of majestic eagles standing with folded wings on a
lofty cliff, and the concussion of a bursting water-bottle on
the back of one of the mules had been magnified into a
musket-shot, the incident served on the whole to place even
reasonable apprehensions in a grotesque light, and resolve
possible peril into absurdity.

After issuing from the glen, an hour's moderate riding
brought our travellers to a fine spring beside a ruined khan.
Here they halted awhile, more for the refreshment of the
horses than their riders, for the place was uninviting, and
the khan afforded no shelter from the sun. It was therefore
decided that they should press on as rapidly as possible,
in the hope of reaching Damascus before sunset.

The route was for the most part dreary, stretching between
barren hills, then opening on an extensive plateau,

wholly destitute of verdure. The view embraced nearly
one hundred square miles, yet there was not a tree nor
shrub to break the dull uniformity. Even the group of
hills, dimly seen in the distance, chilled the senses with
their cold, bare outline.

The ground beneath the horses' feet was hard and flint-strewn;
anywhere but in the East the scene would have
been hopelessly forlorn. But in Syria, land of contrasts,
let the traveller never despair. A sudden break in the
hard-featured landscape, an unforeseen descent, a plunge
into the heart of this stony creation, and behold the change!
A parched soil, a scorching sun, a Sahara of desolation, has
given place to verdure, fragrance, cool shade, and sparkling
rills. Through the midst of the dell flows the Barada, the
ancient Abana, famed river of Damascus. Little villages
are embowered on its banks, embracing on either side the
beneficent and life-giving stream which hastens lovingly on,
defying obstacles.

Follow up the ravine awhile, cross the river by a substantial
bridge, wind through pleasant village gardens, then
strike boldly up the naked white cliffs beyond. Behind
you lies the desert, intersected by Abana with her thread
of green; press on through a rock-hewn path, mount patiently
to the height of land, and pause not until at the
summit you gain a little domed wely, or shrine,—landmark
of the traveller.

Before you is spread Damascus, “the diamond of the
desert,” the pearl of the Orient, “the perennial city.” You
stand where Mahomet stood when he gazed upon the fairest
spot on earth, then heroically turned his back upon it,
exclaiming, “There is but one Paradise for the faithful,
and I will not have mine below.” You behold the glittering
white-domed capital sitting among her gardens, a garlanded

queen, while the golden Abana, her monarch and her
mate, pours boundless wealth into her lap. You may go the
world over, you will never see a more enrapturing vision.

Drawn up in file beside the little wely, our travellers
lingered on the brow of the cliff, loath by speech or movement
to break the spell which bound them to the spot.
It has been well said, that nothing less than a city of
palaces, whose walls are marble and whose doors are ivory
and pearl, could keep up the enchantment of that distant
view. No wonder, then, that imagination shrinks from the
near reality.

There was a motive, moreover, for delay on the part of
M. Trefoil and his party. Abdoul had been sent forward
an hour ago to announce to Mustapha Osman the arrival
of his guests, and, consistently with Eastern customs, it was
no more than reasonable to expect that Mustapha, or some
delegate of his household, should ride forth and meet the
strangers at the city gates.

Nor was the anticipation disappointed. Long before the
eager eyes of his companions were satisfied with gazing,
M. Trefoil, in whom the sentiment of friendship superseded
the love of the beautiful, and who had been eagerly
scanning the direct approach to the city, proclaimed, in a
tone of exhilaration, that he could distinguish Mustapha
and a band of followers just emerging from one of the
principal gateways.

This announcement was listened to at first with incredulity,
but as the well-mounted troop drew nearer, and the
white mare and flame-colored robe of Abdoul figured conspicuously
among the Turkish escort, all doubts as to the
identity of the parties were dispelled, and, encouraging their
weary horses to one last brisk gallop, the little cavalcade,
with M. Trefoil at its head, made a rapid descent into the
plain.