It is midnight, now, and we break camp at six in the morning.

They call this camping out.  At this rate it is a glorious privilege to be a pilgrim to the Holy Land.

CHAPTER XLII.

We are camped near Temnin-el-Foka—­a name which the boys have simplified a good deal, for the sake of convenience in spelling.  They call it Jacksonville.  It sounds a little strangely, here in the Valley of Lebanon, but it has the merit of being easier to remember than the Arabic name.

“Comelike spirits, so depart.”

“The night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.”

I slept very soundly last night, yet when the dragoman’s bell rang at half-past five this morning and the cry went abroad of “Ten minutes to dress for breakfast!” I heard both.  It surprised me, because I have not heard the breakfast gong in the ship for a month, and whenever we have had occasion to fire a salute at daylight, I have only found it out in the course of conversation afterward.  However, camping out, even though it be in a gorgeous tent, makes one fresh and lively in the morning —­especially if the air you are breathing is the cool, fresh air of the mountains.

I was dressed within the ten minutes, and came out.  The saloon tent had been stripped of its sides, and had nothing left but its roof; so when we sat down to table we could look out over a noble panorama of mountain, sea and hazy valley.  And sitting thus, the sun rose slowly up and suffused the picture with a world of rich coloring.

Hot mutton chops, fried chicken, omelettes, fried potatoes and coffee —­all excellent.  This was the bill of fare.  It was sauced with a savage appetite purchased by hard riding the day before, and refreshing sleep in a pure atmosphere.  As I called for a second cup of coffee, I glanced over my shoulder, and behold our white village was gone—­the splendid tents had vanished like magic!  It was wonderful how quickly those Arabs had “folded their tents;” and it was wonderful, also, how quickly they had gathered the thousand odds and ends of the camp together and disappeared with them.

By half-past six we were under way, and all the Syrian world seemed to be under way also.  The road was filled with mule trains and long processions of camels.  This reminds me that we have been trying for some time to think what a camel looks like, and now we have made it out.  When he is down on all his knees, flat on his breast to receive his load, he looks something like a goose swimming; and when he is upright he looks like an ostrich with an extra set of legs.  Camels are not beautiful, and their long under lip gives them an exceedingly “gallus”—­[Excuse the slang, no other word will describe it]—­expression.  They have immense, flat, forked cushions of feet,