and spring of his gallop, the dainty grace of
his walk--when you see these things you recognise at once the real,
original horse which the painters used to depict in their "Portraits of
General X on his Favourite Charger."

I asked Calvalcanty what one of these fine creatures would cost. "A good
horse, two or three hundred dollars; an extra-good one, four hundred; a
fancy one, who knows?"

We find Rasheiya full of Americanism. We walk out to take photographs,
and at almost every street corner some young man who has been in the
United States or Canada salutes us with: "How are you to-day? You
fellows come from America? What's the news there? Is Bryan elected yet?
I voted for McKinley. I got a store in Kankakee. I got one in Jackson,
Miss." A beautiful dark-eyed girl, in a dreadful department-store dress,
smiles at us from an open door and says: "Take my picture? I been at
America."

One talkative and friendly fellow joins us in our walk; in fact he takes
possession of us, guiding us up the crooked alleys and out on the
housetops which command the best views, and showing us off to his
friends,--an old gentleman who is spinning goats' hair for the coarse
black tents (St. Paul's trade), and two ladies who are grinding corn in
a hand-mill, one pushing and the other pulling. Our self-elected guide
has spent seven years in Illinois and Indiana, peddling and
store-keeping. He has returned to Rasheiya as a successful adventurer
and built a stone house with a red roof and an arched portico. Is he
going to settle down there for life? "I not know," says he. "Guess I
want sell my house now. This country beautiful; I like look at her. But
America free--good government--good place to live. Gee whiz! I go back
quick, you bet."

III

ANTI-LEBANON AND THE RIVER ABANA

Our path the next day leads up to the east over the ridges of the slight
depression which lies between Mount Hermon and the rest of the
Anti-Lebanon range. We pass the disconsolate village and lake of Kafr
Kuk. The water which shone so blue in the distance now confesses itself
a turbid, stagnant pool, locked in among the hills, and breeding fevers
for those who live beside it. The landscape grows wild and sullen as we
ascend; the hills are strewn with shattered fragments of rock, or worn
into battered and fantastic crags; the bottoms of the ravines are
soaked and barren as if the winter floods had just left them. Presently
we are riding among great snowdrifts. It