over which his heavy eyebrows hung low.  “Are there many English in Jerusalem?” he asked.  “A good many,” I replied; “there always are at Easter.”  “Can you tell me anything of any of them?” he asked.  “Not a word,” said I, for I knew no one; “but our consul can.”  And then we bowed to each other and he passed on.

I got off my horse and scrambled down on foot after Smith.  I found him gathering berries and bushes as though his very soul were mad with botany; but as I had seen nothing of this in him before, I asked what strange freak had taken him.

“You were talking to that old man,” he said.

“Well, yes, I was.”

“That is the relation of whom I have spoken to you.”

“The d— he is!”

“And I would avoid him, if it be possible.”

I then learned that the old gentleman was his uncle.  He had no living father or mother, and he now supposed that his relative was going to Jerusalem in quest of him.  “If so,” said I, “you will undoubtedly give him leg bail, unless the Austrian boat is more than ordinarily late.  It is as much as we shall do to catch it, and you may be half over Africa, or far gone on your way to India, before he can be on your track again.”

“I will tell you all about it at Alexandria,” he replied; and then he scrambled up again with his horse, and we went on.  That night we slept at the Armenian convent at Ramlath, or Ramath.  This place is supposed to stand on the site of Arimathea, and is marked as such in many of the maps.  The monks at this time of the year are very busy, as the pilgrims all stay here for one night on their routes backwards and forwards, and the place on such occasions is terribly crowded.  On the night of our visit it was nearly empty, as a caravan had left it that morning; and thus we were indulged with separate cells, a point on which my companion seemed to lay considerable stress.

On the following day, at about noon, we entered Jaffa, and put up at an inn there which is kept by a Pole.  The boat from Beyrout, which touches at Jaffa on its way to Alexandria, was not yet in, nor even sighted; we were therefore amply in time.  “Shall we sail to-night?” I asked of the agent.  “Yes, in all probability,” he replied.  “If the signal be seen before three we shall do so.  If not, then not;” and so I returned to the hotel.

Smith had involuntarily shown signs of fatigue during the journey, but yet he had borne up well against it.  I had never felt called on to grant any extra indulgence as to time because the work was too much for him.  But now he was a good deal knocked up, and I was a little frightened fearing that I had over-driven him under the heat of the sun.  I was alarmed lest he should have fever, and proposed to send for the Jaffa doctor.  But this he utterly refused.  He would shut himself for an hour or two in his room, he said, and by that time he trusted the boat would be in sight.  It was clear to me that he was very anxious on the subject, fearing that his uncle would be back upon his heels before he had started.

I ordered a serious breakfast for myself, for with me, on such occasions, my appetite demands more immediate attention than my limbs.  I also acknowledge that I become fatigued, and can lay myself at length during such idle days and sleep from hour to hour; but the desire to do so never comes till I have well eaten and drunken.  A bottle of French wine, three or four cutlets of goats’ flesh, an omelet made out of the freshest eggs, and an enormous dish of oranges, was the banquet set before me; and though I might have found fault with it in Paris or London, I thought that it did well enough in Jaffa.  My poor friend could not join me, but had a cup of coffee in his room.  “At any rate take a little brandy in it,” I said to him, as I stood over his bed.  “I could not swallow it,” said he, looking at me with almost beseeching eyes.  “Beshrew the fellow,” I said to myself as I left him, carefully closing the door, so that the sound should not shake him; “he is little better than a woman, and yet I have become as fond of him as though he were my brother.”

I went out at three, but up to that time the boat had not been signalled.  “And we shall not get out to-night?”  “No, not to-night,” said the agent.  “And what time to-morrow?”  “If she comes in this evening, you will start by daylight.  But they so manage her departure from Beyrout, that she seldom is here in the evening.”  “It will be noon to-morrow then?”  “Yes,” the man said, “noon to-morrow.”  I calculated, however, that the old gentleman could not possibly be on our track by that time.  He would not have reached Jerusalem till late in the day on which we saw him, and it would take him some time to obtain tidings of his nephew.  But it might be possible that messengers sent by him should reach Jaffa by four or five on the day after his arrival.  That would be this very day which we were now wasting at Jaffa.  Having thus made my calculations, I returned to Smith to give him such consolation as it might be in my power to afford.

He seemed to be dreadfully afflicted by all this.  “He will have traced me to Jerusalem, and then again away; and will follow me immediately.”

“That is all very well,” I said; “but let even a young man do the best he can, and he will not get from Jerusalem to Jaffa in less than twelve hours.  Your uncle is not a young man, and could not possibly do the journey under two days.”

“But he will send.  He will not mind what money he spends.”

“And if he does send, take off your hat to his messengers, and bid them carry your complaints back.  You are not a felon whom he can arrest.”

“No, he cannot arrest me; but, ah! you do not understand;” and then he sat up on the bed, and seemed as though he were going to wring his hands in despair.

I waited for some half hour in his room, thinking that he would tell me this story of his.  If he required that I should give him my aid in the presence either of his uncle or of his uncle’s myrmidons, I must at any rate know what was likely to be the dispute between them.  But as he said nothing I suggested that he should stroll out with me among the orange-groves by which the town is surrounded.  In answer to this he looked up piteously into my face as though begging me to be merciful to him.  “You are strong,” said he, “and cannot understand what it is to feel fatigue as I do.”  And yet he had declared on commencing his journey that he would not be found to complain?  Nor had he complained by a single word till after that encounter with his uncle.  Nay, he had borne up well till this news had reached us of the boat being late.  I felt convinced that if the boat were at this moment lying in the harbour all that appearance of excessive weakness would soon vanish.  What it was that he feared I could not guess; but it was manifest to me that some great terror almost overwhelmed him.

“My idea is,” said I, and I suppose that I spoke with something less of good-nature in my tone than I had assumed for the last day or two, “that no man should, under any circumstances, be so afraid of another man, as to tremble at his presence,—either at his presence or his expected presence.”

“Ah, now you are angry with me; now you despise me!”

“Neither the one nor the other.  But if I may take the liberty of a friend with you, I should advise you to combat this feeling of horror.  If you do not, it will unman you.  After all, what can your uncle do to you?  He cannot rob you of your heart and soul.  He cannot touch your inner self.”

“You do not know,” he said.

“Ah but, Smith, I do know that.  Whatever may be this quarrel between you and him, you should not tremble at the thought of him; unless indeed—”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you had done aught that should make you tremble before every honest man.”  I