“No, you do not know what ails me,” he said at last, “and, therefore, cannot judge.”

“Perhaps not, my dear fellow.  But my experience tells me that early wounds are generally capable of cure; and, therefore, I surmise that yours may be so.  The heart at your time of life is not worn out, and has strength and soundness left wherewith to throw off its maladies.  I hope it may be so with you.”

“God knows.   I do not mean to say that there are none more to be pitied than I am; but at the present moment, I am not—not light-hearted.”

“I wish I could ease your burden, my dear fellow.”

“It is most preposterous in me thus to force myself upon you, and then trouble you with my cares.  But I had been alone so long, and I was so weary of it!”

“By Jove, and so had I.  Make no apology.  And let me tell you this,—though perhaps you will not credit me,—that I would sooner laugh with a comrade than cry with him is true enough; but, if occasion demands, I can do the latter also.”

He then put out his hand to me, and I pressed it in token of my friendship.  My own hand was hot and rough with the heat and sand; but his was soft and cool almost as a woman’s.  I thoroughly hate an effeminate man; but, in spite of a certain womanly softness about this fellow, I could not hate him.  “Yes,” I continued, “though somewhat unused to the melting mood, I also sometimes give forth my medicinal gums.  I don’t want to ask you any questions, and, as a rule, I hate to be told secrets, but if I can be of any service to you in any matter I will do my best.  I don’t say this with reference to the present moment, but think of it before we part.”

I looked round at him and saw that he was in tears.  “I know that you will think that I am a weak fool,” he said, pressing his handkerchief to his eyes.

“By no means.  There are moments in a man’s life when it becomes him to weep like a woman; but the older he grows the more seldom those moments come to him.  As far as I can see of men, they never cry at that which disgraces them.”

“It is left for women to do that,” he answered.

“Oh, women!  A woman cries for everything and for nothing.  It is the sharpest arrow she has in her quiver,—the best card in her hand.  When a woman cries, what can you do but give her all she asks for?”

“Do you—dislike women?”

“No, by Jove!  I am never really happy unless one is near me, or more than one.  A man, as a rule, has an amount of energy within him which he cannot turn to profit on himself alone.  It is good for him to have a woman by him that he may work for her, and thus have exercise for his limbs and faculties.  I am very fond of women.  But I always like those best who are most helpless.”

We were silent again for a while, and it was during this time that I found myself lying with my head in his lap.  I had slept, but it could have been but for a few minutes, and when I woke I found his hand upon my brow.  As I started up he said that the flies had been annoying me, and that he had not chosen to waken me as I seemed weary.  “It has been that double bathing,” I said, apologetically; for I always feel ashamed when I am detected sleeping in the day.  “In hot weather the water does make one drowsy.  By Jove, it’s getting dark; we had better have the horses.”

“Stay half a moment,” he said, speaking very softly, and laying his hand upon my arm, “I will not detain you a minute.”

“There is no hurry in life,” I said.

“You promised me just now you would assist me.”

“If it be in my power, I will.”

“Before we part at Alexandria I will endeavour to tell you the story of my troubles, and then if you can aid me—”  It struck me as he paused that I had made a rash promise, but nevertheless I must stand by it now—with one or two provisoes.  The chances were that the young man was short of money, or else that he had got into a scrape about a girl.  In either case I might give him some slight assistance; but, then, it behoved me to make him understand that I would not consent to become a participator in mischief.  I was too old to get my head willingly into a scrape, and this I must endeavour to make him understand.

“I will, if it be in my power,” I said.  “I will ask no questions now; but if your trouble be about some lady—”

“It is not,” said he.

“Well; so be it.  Of all troubles those are the most troublesome.  If you are short of cash—”

“No, I am not short of cash.”

“You are not.  That’s well too; for want of money is a sore trouble also.”  And then I paused before I came to the point.  “I do not suspect anything bad of you, Smith.  Had I done so, I should not have spoken as I have done.  And if there be nothing bad—”

“There is nothing disgraceful,” he said.

“That is just what I mean; and in that case I will do anything for you that may be within my power.  Now let us look for Joseph and the mucherry-boy, for it is time that we were at Jericho.”

I cannot describe at length the whole of our journey from thence to our tents at Jericho, nor back to Jerusalem, nor even from Jerusalem to Jaffa.  At Jericho we did sleep in tents, paying so much per night, according to the tariff.  We wandered out at night, and drank coffee with a family of Arabs in the desert, sitting in a ring round their coffee-kettle.  And we saw a Turkish soldier punished with the bastinado,—a sight which did not do me any good, and which made Smith very sick.  Indeed after the first blow he walked away.  Jericho is a remarkable spot in that pilgrim week, and I wish I had space to describe it.  But I have not, for I must hurry on, back to Jerusalem and thence to Jaffa.  I had much to tell also of those Bedouins; how they were essentially true to us, but teased us almost to frenzy by their continual begging.  They begged for our food and our drink, for our cigars and our gunpowder, for the clothes off our backs, and the handkerchiefs out of our pockets.  As to gunpowder I had none to give them, for my charges were all made up in cartridges; and I learned that the guns behind their backs were a mere pretence, for they had not a grain of powder among them.

We slept one night in Jerusalem, and started early on the following morning.  Smith came to my hotel so that we might be ready together for the move.  We still carried with us Joseph and the mucherry-boy; but for our Bedouins, who had duly received their forty shillings a piece, we had no further use.  On our road down to Jerusalem we had much chat together, but only one adventure.  Those pilgrims, of whom I have spoken, journey to Jerusalem in the greatest number by the route which we were now taking from it, and they come in long droves, reaching Jaffa in crowds by the French and Austrian steamers from Smyrna, Damascus, and Constantinople.  As their number confers security in that somewhat insecure country, many travellers from the west of Europe make arrangements to travel with them.  On our way down we met the last of these caravans for the year, and we were passing it for more than two hours.  On this occasion I rode first, and Smith was immediately behind me; but of a sudden I observed him to wheel his horse round, and to clamber downwards among bushes and stones towards a river that ran below us.  “Hallo, Smith,” I cried, “you will destroy your horse, and yourself too.”  But he would not answer me, and all I could do was to draw up in the path and wait.  My confusion was made the worse, as at that moment a long string of pilgrims was passing by.  “Good morning, sir,” said an old man to me in good English.  I looked up as I answered him, and saw a grey-haired gentleman, of very solemn and sad aspect.  He might be seventy years of age, and I could see that he was attended by three or four servants.  I shall never forget the severe and sorrowful expression of his eyes,