n the valley night had come. The large, trembling stars were strewn
through the vault above us, and rested on the dim ridges of the
mountains, and shone reflected in the puddles of the long road like
fallen jewels. The lights of Latrun, if it had any, were already out of
sight behind us. Our horses were weary and began to stumble. Where was
the camp?

Look, there is a light, bobbing along the road toward us. It is
Youssouf, our faithful major-domo, come out with a lantern to meet us. A
few rods farther through the mud, and we turn a corner beside an acacia
hedge and the ruined arch of an ancient well. There, in a little field
of flowers, close to the tiniest of brooks, our tents are waiting for us
with open doors. The candles are burning on the table. The rugs are
spread and the beds are made. The dinner-table is laid for four, and
there is a bright bunch of flowers in the middle of it. We have seen the
excellency of Sharon and the moon is shining for us on the Valley of
Aijalon.

II

"THE STRENGTH OF THE HILLS"

It is no hardship to rise early in camp. At the windows of a house the
daylight often knocks as an unwelcome messenger, rousing the sleeper
with a sudden call. But through the roof and the sides of a tent it
enters gently and irresistibly, embracing you with soft arms, laying
rosy touches on your eyelids; and while your dream fades you know that
you are awake and it is already day.

As we lift the canvas curtains and come out of our pavilions, the sun is
just topping the eastern hills, and all the field around us glittering
with immense drops of dew. On the top of the ruined arch beside the camp
our Arab watchman, hired from the village of Latrun as we passed, is
still perched motionless, wrapped in his flowing rags, holding his long
gun across his knees.

"_Salam 'aleikum, ya ghafir!_" I say, and though my Arabic is doubtless
astonishingly bad, he knows my meaning; for he answers gravely,
"_'Aleikum essalam!_--And with you be peace!"

It is indeed a peaceful day in which our journey to Jerusalem is
completed. Leaving the tents and impedimenta in charge of Youssouf and
Shukari the cook, and the muleteers, we are in the saddle by seven
o'clock, and riding into the narrow entrance of the Wadi 'Ali. It is a
long, steep valley leading into the heart of the hills. The sides are
ribbed with rocks, among which the cyclamens grow in profusion. A few
olives are scattered along the bottom of the vale, and at t