these contrasted scenes for some time;
but at length when I turned my eyes upon my companions and myself, it
struck me that we also were somewhat remarkable in our way. First there
was the old blind grey-bearded abbot, leaning on his staff, surrounded
with three or four dark robed Coptic monks, holding in their hands the
lighted candles with which we had explored the secret recesses of the
oil-cellar; there was I dressed in the long robes of a merchant of the
East, with a small book in the breast of my gown and a big one under
each arm; and there were my servants armed to the teeth and laden with
old books; and one and all we were so covered with dirt and wax from top
to toe, that we looked more as if we had been up the chimney than like
quiet people engaged in literary researches. One of the monks was
leaning in a brown study upon the ponderous and gigantic volume in its
primaeval binding, in the interior of which the blind abbot had hoped to
find a treasure. Perched upon the battlements of this remote monastery
we formed as picturesque a group as one might wish to see; though
perhaps the begrimed state of our flowing robes as well as of our hands
and faces would render a somewhat remote point of view more agreeable to
the artist than a closer inspection.

While we had been standing on the top of the steps, I had heard from
time to time some incomprehensible sounds which seemed to arise from
among the green branches of the palms and fig-trees in a corner of the
garden at our feet. "What," said I to a bearded Copt, who was seated on
the steps, "is that strange howling noise which I hear among the trees?
I have heard it several times when the rustling of the wind among the
branches has died away for a moment. It sounds something like a chant,
or a dismal moaning song: only it is different in its cadence from
anything that I have heard before." "That noise," replied the monk, "is
the sound of the service of the church which is being chanted by the
Abyssinian monks. Come down the steps and I will show you their chapel
and their library. The monastery which they frequented in this desert
has fallen to decay; and they now live here, their numbers being
recruited occasionally by pilgrims on their way from Abyssinia to
Jerusalem, some of whom pass by each year; not many now, to be sure; but
still fewer return to their own land."

Giving up my precious manuscripts to the guardianship of my servants and
desiring them to put the