a story as was possible under the circumstances.  He was the proprietor of the hut the owner of the goat lived in.  He had come to collect his lawful rent, and he knew the money was ready, but he couldn’t get it, and so had seized the only movable object of any value.  The poor wretch, who still had the goat by the horns, denied the story, but in such a way that we feared he would only injure his conscience by other prevarications if we encouraged him.  So we rode on; and in less than half an hour the sheik swept proudly by us, with no goat slung over his shoulders, but as he passed he shot out a single word, that told, like Caesar’s vici, the whole story of his victory.

The muleteer of Palestine will start on a journey at almost any hour of the morning, but he has a superstitious dread of the darkness that falls after sunset, and our Hassan was now too frightened to make any answer to our questions except a short, tremulous half threat, half entreaty to hurry.  We were riding along the valley between Gerizim and Ebal.  We had left Joseph’s tomb, and Jacob’s well, where our Lord, wearied with his journey, as we were with ours, sat and rested as he talked with a woman who had come from the town toward which we were hurrying.  The two mountains, their sides covered with fig-trees and olives, loomed up dimly out of the twilight on either side.  We thought of the day when the hosts of Israel were encamped here and the antiphonal choirs chanted blessings from Gerizim and curses from Ebal in the ears of the vastest congregation ever gathered on earth.  There was no sound now of blessing or cursing.  The very stillness was oppressive.  Hassan almost ceased to breathe, and it was not till our horses’ hoofs rang on the rough pavement of Nablous—­the ancient Shechem—­that he relaxed his muscles and gave a long sigh of relief.

We rode at once to the Latin convent, where we felt sure of a cordial reception and a comfortable bed.  There was no light anywhere in the gloomy building; but Hassan knocked at the great door, confidently at first, and then angrily.  At last came an Arab youth about nineteen, who stuck one eye in the crack of the door, and asked our business.

“Yes,” he said, “you stay here all night, but go away early in the morning.”

This was definite, if not hospitable; but we went in, and asked to see the monks.

“None here,” said the Arab, with a chuckle:  “all gone to Tiberias.”  We ordered dinner, and, after half an hour, the Arab brought a saucer holding two boiled eggs, put it on a chair, and said, “There’s your dinner.”  We were indignant, but it did no good:  this boy was the head of the house for the time, and neither promises nor threats were of any avail to add anything, besides a little salt and pepper, to the dinner he had prepared.  We went to bed very hungry, but very tired, and in the morning, before breakfast, hunted out the house of an English missionary, who took pity on us and gave us to eat.  But it is