Towards evening, as Mr. H. and myself, with Francois, were riding in advance of the baggage mules, the former with his gun in his hand, I with a pair of pistols thrust through the folds of my shawl, and Francois with his long Turkish sabre, we came suddenly upon a lonely Englishman, whose companions were somewhere in the rear.  He appeared to be struck with terror on seeing us making towards him, and, turning his horse’s head, made an attempt to fly.  The animal, however, was restive, and, after a few plunges, refused to move.  The traveller gave himself up for lost; his arms dropped by his side; he stared wildly at us, with pale face and eyes opened wide with a look of helpless fright.  Restraining with difficulty a shout of laughter, I said to him:  “Did you leave Jaffa to-day?” but so completely was his ear the fool of his imagination, that he thought I was speaking Arabic, and made a faint attempt to get out the only word or two of that language which he knew.  I then repeated, with as much distinctness as I could command:  “Did—­you—­leave—­Jaffa—­to-day?” He stammered mechanically, through his chattering teeth, “Y-y-yes!” and we immediately dashed off at a gallop through the bushes.  When we last saw him, he was standing as we left him, apparently not yet recovered from the shock.

At the little village of El Haram, where we spent the night, I visited the tomb of Sultan Ali ebn-Aleym, who is now revered as a saint.  It is enclosed in a mosque, crowning the top of a hill.  I was admitted into the court-yard without hesitation, though, from the porter styling me “Effendi,” he probably took me for a Turk.  At the entrance to the inner court, I took off my slippers and walked to the tomb of the Sultan—­a square heap of white marble, in a small marble enclosure.  In one of the niches in the wall, near the tomb, there is a very old iron box, with a slit in the top.  The porter informed me that it contained a charm, belonging to Sultan Ali, which was of great use in producing rain in times of drouth.

In the morning we sent our baggage by a short road across the country to this place, and then rode down the beach towards Jaffa.  The sun came out bright and hot as we paced along the line of spray, our horses’ feet sinking above the fetlocks in pink and purple shells, while the droll sea-crabs scampered away from our path, and the blue gelatinous sea-nettles were tossed before us by the surge.  Our view was confined to the sand-hills—­sometimes covered with a flood of scarlet poppies—­on one hand; and to the blue, surf-fringed sea on the other.  The terrible coast was still lined with wrecks, and just before reaching the town, we passed a vessel of some two hundred tons, recently cast ashore, with her strong hull still unbroken.  We forded the rapid stream of El Anjeh, which comes down from the Plain of Sharon, the water rising to our saddles.  The low promontory in front now broke into towers and white domes, and great masses of heavy walls.