o those gates are alike in their sincerity, in
their devotion, in the spirit of sacrifice that leads them on their
pilgrimage. Among them all there are hypocrites and bigots, doubtless,
but there are also earnest and devout souls, seeking something that is
higher than themselves, "a city set upon a hill." Why do they not
understand one another? Why do they fight and curse one another? Do they
not all come to humble themselves, to pray, to seek the light?

Dark walls that embrace so many tear-stained, blood-stained, holy and
dishonoured shrines! And you, narrow and gloomy gates, through whose
portals so many myriads of mankind have passed with their swords, their
staves, their burdens and their palm-branches! What songs of triumph you
have heard, what yells of battle-rage, what moanings of despair, what
murmurs of hopes and gratitude, what cries of anguish, what bursts of
careless, happy laughter,--all borne upon the wind that bloweth where it
will across these bare and rugged heights. We will not seek to enter yet
into the mysteries that you hide. We will tarry here for a while in the
open sunlight, where the cool breeze of April stirs the olive-groves
outside the Damascus Gate. We will tranquillize our thoughts,--perhaps
we may even find them growing clearer and surer,--among the simple cares
and pleasures that belong to the life of every day; the life which must
have food when it is hungry, and rest when it is weary, and a shelter
from the storm and the night; the life of those who are all strangers
and sojourners upon the earth, and whose richest houses and strongest
cities are, after all, but a little longer-lasting tents and camps.

II

THE CAMP IN THE OLIVE-GROVE

The place of our encampment is peaceful and friendly, without being
remote or secluded. The grove is large and free from all undergrowth:
the trunks of the ancient olive-trees are gnarled and massive, the
foliage soft and tremulous. The corner that George has chosen for us is
raised above the road by a kind of terrace, so that it is not too easily
accessible to the curious passer-by. Across the road we see a gray stone
wall, and above it the roof of the Anglican Bishop's house, and the
schools, from which a sound of shrill young voices shouting in play or
chanting in unison rises at intervals through the day. The ground on
which we stand is slightly furrowed with the little ridges of last
year's ploughing: but it has not yet been broken this spring,