that he did not expect very happy tidings.  Indeed I had made up my mind that he was by no means free from care or sorrow.  He had not the air of a man who could say of himself that he was “totus teres atque rotundus.”  But I had no wish to inquire, and the matter would have dropped had he not himself added—“I fear that I shall meet acquaintances in Egypt whom it will give me no pleasure to see.”

“Then,” said I, “if I were you, I would go to Constantinople instead;—indeed, anywhere rather than fall among friends who are not friendly.  And the nearer the friend is, the more one feels that sort of thing.  To my way of thinking, there is nothing on earth so pleasant as a pleasant wife; but then, what is there so damnable as one that is unpleasant?”

“Are you a married man?” he inquired.  All his questions were put in a low tone of voice which seemed to give to them an air of special interest, and made one almost feel that they were asked with some special view to one’s individual welfare.  Now the fact is, that I am a married man with a family; but I am not much given to talk to strangers about my domestic concerns, and, therefore, though I had no particular object in view, I denied my obligations in this respect.  “No,” said I; “I have not come to that promotion yet.  I am too frequently on the move to write myself down as Paterfamilias.”

“Then you know nothing about that pleasantness of which you spoke just now?”

“Nor of the unpleasantness, thank God; my personal experiences are all to come,—as also are yours, I presume?”

It was possible that he had hampered himself with some woman, and that she was to meet him at Alexandria.  Poor fellow! thought I.  But his unhappiness was not of that kind.  “No,” said he; “I am not married; I am all alone in the world.”

“Then I certainly would not allow myself to be troubled by unpleasant acquaintances.”

It was now four hours since we had left Jerusalem, and we had arrived at the place at which it was proposed that we should breakfast.  There was a large well there, and shade afforded by a rock under which the water sprung; and the Arabs had constructed a tank out of which the horses could drink, so that the place was ordinarily known as the first stage out of Jerusalem.

Smith had said not a word about his saddle, or complained in any way of discomfort, so that I had in truth forgotten the subject.  Other matters had continually presented themselves, and I had never even asked him how he had fared.  I now jumped from my horse, but I perceived at once that he was unable to do so.  He smiled faintly, as his eye caught mine, but I knew that he wanted assistance.  “Ah,” said I, “that confounded Turkish saddle has already galled your skin.  I see how it is; I shall have to doctor you with a little brandy,—externally applied, my friend.”  But I lent him my shoulder, and with that assistance he got down, very gently and slowly.

We ate our breakfast with a good will; bread and cold fowl and brandy-and-water, with a hard-boiled egg by way of a final delicacy; and then I began to bargain with Joseph for the loan of his English saddle.  I saw that Smith could not get through the journey with that monstrous Turkish affair, and that he would go on without complaining till he fainted or came to some other signal grief.  But the Frenchman, seeing the plight in which we were, was disposed to drive a very hard bargain.  He wanted forty shillings, the price of a pair of live Bedouins, for the accommodation, and declared that, even then, he should make the sacrifice only out of consideration to me.

“Very well,” said I.  “I’m tolerably tough myself; and I’ll change with the gentleman.  The chances are that I shall not be in a very liberal humour when I reach Jaffa with stiff limbs and a sore skin.  I have a very good memory, Joseph.”

“I’ll take thirty shillings, Mr. Jones; though I shall have to groan all the way like a condemned devil.”

I struck a bargain with him at last for five-and-twenty, and set him to work to make the necessary change on the horses.  “It will be just the same thing to him,” I said to Smith.  “I find that he is as much used to one as to the other.”

“But how much money are you to pay him?” he asked.  “Oh, nothing,” I replied.  “Give him a few piastres when you part with him at Jaffa.”  I do not know why I should have felt thus inclined to pay money out of my pocket for this Smith,—a man whom I had only seen for the first time on the preceding evening, and whose temperament was so essentially different from my own; but so I did.  I would have done almost anything in reason for his comfort; and yet he was a melancholy fellow, with good inward pluck as I believed, but without that outward show of dash and hardihood which I confess I love to see.  “Pray tell him that I’ll pay him for it,” said he.  “We’ll make that all right,” I answered; and then we remounted,—not without some difficulty on his part.  “You should have let me rub in that brandy,” I said.  “You can’t conceive how efficaciously I would have done it.”  But he made me no answer.

At noon we met a caravan of pilgrims coming up from Jordan.  There might be some three or four hundred, but the number seemed to be treble that, from the loose and straggling line in which they journeyed.  It was a very singular sight, as they moved slowly along the narrow path through the sand, coming out of a defile among the hills, which was perhaps a quarter of a mile in front of us, passing us as we stood still by the wayside, and then winding again out of sight on the track over which we had come.  Some rode on camels,—a whole family, in many cases, being perched on the same animal.  I observed a very old man and a very old woman slung in panniers over a camel’s back,—not such panniers as might be befitting such a purpose, but square baskets, so that the heads and heels of each of the old couple hung out of the rear and front.  “Surely the journey will be their death,” I said to Joseph.  “Yes it will,” he replied, quite coolly; “but what matter how soon they die now that they have bathed in Jordan?”  Very many rode on donkeys; two, generally, on each donkey; others, who had command of money, on horses; but the greater number walked, toiling painfully from Jerusalem to Jericho on the first day, sleeping there in tents and going to bathe on the second day, and then returning from Jericho to Jerusalem on the third.  The pilgrimage is made throughout in accordance with fixed rules, and there is a tariff for the tent accommodation at Jericho,—so much per head per night, including the use of hot water.

Standing there, close by the wayside, we could see not only the garments and faces of these strange people, but we could watch their gestures and form some opinion of what was going on within their thoughts.  They were much quieter,—tamer, as it were,—than Englishmen would be under such circumstances.  Those who were carried seemed to sit on their beasts in passive tranquillity, neither enjoying nor suffering anything.  Their object had been to wash in Jordan,—to do that once in their lives;—and they had washed in Jordan.  The benefit expected was not to be immediately spiritual.  No earnest prayerfulness was considered necessary after the ceremony.  To these members of the Greek Christian Church it had been handed down from father to son that washing in Jordan once during life was efficacious towards salvation.  And therefore the journey had been made at terrible cost and terrible risk; for these people had come from afar, and were from their habits but little capable of long journeys.  Many die under the toil; but this matters not if they do not die before they have reached Jordan.  Some few there are, undoubtedly, more ecstatic in this great deed of their religion.  One man I especially noticed on this day.  He had bound himself to make the pilgrimage