Late in the afternoon we came to the marshy lakes, “the waters of Merom,” where Joshua smote the kings of the north, who made a final stand here with their united armies, “like the sands of the sea in number.”  We should have been glad to find one of their royal palaces in tolerable repair, for we were tired and wanted to stop for the night, but there were no ruined regal mansions in sight, not even a mud hut such as had given us shelter and hunting at Jenin.  The sun had gone down, and our horses shivered in the night air.  The prospect was gloomy, and grew no brighter as we went on.  At last we saw some long black tents across the plain sheltered by the hills; and, while we were wondering what the chances might be of escaping robbery by the Bedawin at this late hour of the night, the Kurd turned his horse out of the bridle-path and headed for the largest tent.  The probabilities seemed now about equal that the Kurd was in league with these wild, wandering tribes, and that they would pluck us, and torture us, and bury us without the aid of undertaker or parson, or, on the other hand, that they might welcome us to the few comforts within their command.  The sheik was standing, with a half-dozen of his leading men, at the door of his tent, and, as we dismounted, he came forward with much grace and dignity and embraced my friend, kissing him on each cheek.  He only waved his hand to me, as a younger and less important personage, and led us into his tent.  Cushions were thrown down for us on the bare earth, and we were told to be seated.  A little fire was burning just in front of the tent, and around that the privileged persons of the tribe squatted, only the chief and some of his great warriors being under the tent with ourselves.  They were as curious as civilized people to know where we were going, and why; and they concealed with difficulty their surprise and suspicion when they were told that our only object was to see the country.  No Oriental, much less a Bedawin, ranks that among possible reasons for passing from one place to another.  After more conversation than we thought necessary before supper, a dish of rice was brought in, and with it two wooden spoons; but how these came to be in a sheik’s tent we thought it wise not to ask.  They looked on while we ate, refusing all our entreaties to join with us; but when we had finished, they thrust their hands into the bowl, and, with a deft movement, made round balls as large as a lemon, and shot these with great skill into their mouths.  While they ate, my friend asked if he might read them a story.  They consented eagerly; and, taking out his Arabic Testament, he read them the parable of the Prodigal Son.  A more appreciative company never listened to it.  At each crisis of the narrative the sheik looked around and said, “Fayib ketir,”—­“Very good,”—­and then, as if devoutly making the responses, they all said, “Fayib ketir” I thought I saw one of them brush away a tear as the story was finished:  perhaps he was a father with a prodigal son, or something in his heart may have told him that he was a prodigal himself.