In a Syrian Saddle

by A. Goodrich-Freer

"Bonsoir, madame, bonsoir, messieurs! je regrette—je vous en prie—venez prendre un peu de café chez nous—vous reposer un peu!"

This messenger of mercy was a charming young man, beautifully dressed, smiling, debonnair, shaking hands with all of us in turn. In a few minutes we had walked across the bridge; the tramp behind us of our horses' feet was convincing that it was not all a dream; in a few minutes more we were seated about the door of a comfortable tent, carpets were under our feet, the Lady had an easy-chair, the men had stools; the light of a lantern showed comfortable domesticity within; we were drinking sherbet, we were revived with cognac, we were refreshed with fruit, and the preparation of coffee was in rapid progress.

By degrees we understood what had happened. The wardens of the bridge, after the fashion of subordinates "clothed in a little brief authority," had taken our affairs into their own hands, and turned a deaf ear to all explanation. Somehow, however, the matter had finally come to the ears of the superior officer, an important functionary, who at sunset, his duty done, had retired to his tent at some little distance. The name of the Professor, carried to intelligent ears, had had its immediate effect—and here we were, relieved of all apprehension, and luxuriously awaiting the moonrise for the accomplishment of our journey.

Nothing could exceed the kindness of our welcome. Our new friend presented his card to each of us, and we in turn wrote down our names on paper, that all might feel friendly and at home. We discussed common acquaintances among the Jerusalem effendis, promised exchange of visits, sympathised as to the monotony of a solitary existence on the banks of the Jordan, and were interested in hearing—from a Moslem—that such things were all very well for John the Baptist or Elijah, but now one's ideas were different. When conversation failed we ate nuts, almonds, delicious salted pistachios: an Arab, even in the wilderness of Judæa, is certain to be not far from nuts. The spirit of hospitality was so diffused that when the Lady was about to reject one she was unable to crack in her fingers, the negro servant gently took it, cracked it with his own gleaming teeth, and returned it to her.

He was one of those big negroes common in this country and known as haji (pilgrims), probably because they often arrive with the Mecca caravan, or even come on their own account to the mosque at Jerusalem, the secondary pilgrimage of the Moslem faith. They are employed as guardians of property, much as, at home, we employ watch-dogs, and may be seen everywhere, sitting at the doors of public buildings or at the gates of enclosed spaces. If you wish to enter a courtyard you knock at the door, and call out "Haj!" certain that a giant negro will appear upon the scene. They are said to be extraordinarily faithful, allowing themselves to be misused and beaten rather than depart from the strict letter of the commands they have received from their employers. The negro in question was clad in snow-white robes, and as he leaned up against the door of the tent in the starlight, absolutely motionless when not employed, the intense blackness of his countenance showing between his white turban and white kumbaz, it was difficult to realise that he was of ordinary humanity and not a picture in a fairy-tale book.

Presently the moon looked over the heights of the mountains of Moab, just as last night she had arisen above the Jebel Osha, and, if only for the sake of our famishing steeds, we felt we must not delay. Our host insisted upon sending an escort with us, alleging the difficulty of finding the way among those weird hills and along the trackless sands. On being assured that our men were competent to conduct us he still most courteously insisted, and finally a sufficient reason transpired which, out of kindness, he had so far withheld. It appeared that soldiers were secreted in the wilderness on the lookout for criminals, of some nature not specified, who were expected to attempt to escape by night into the border country at the south end of the Dead Sea, the city of refuge for the desperate and lawless, and it was just possible we might have some inconvenience.

We gratefully accepted his kindness, and took our leave. We had already received a lesson in hospitality, now we were to have one in deportment. We could not but feel that our own adieux were lacking in grace, in gratitude, in dignity, when compared with those of our friend; so gracious without empressement, so respectful without servility—in short, so entirely all that is most attractive in the higher-class Oriental. The Professor, who had learned much in the school of Bedu, alone showed to advantage, and seemed to possess a courtesy not wholly graceless and European.

Our next lesson was in horsemanship. Our escorting soldier was as nearly ubiquitous as it was in the nature of man and horse to be. A distant caravan of camels showed sharp against the sky. He had flashed up to them, interrogated them, and was back, beating up our rear, and again in front, indicating the track we were to pursue; for Khalil had abandoned responsibility, and was frankly asleep on the top of a pile of baggage. Even the "majnoon" had wearily desisted from his ambitions, and had retired to the rear with his humbler companions.

If that strange world had seemed weird and visionary in the morning twilight, it was even more so under the moon, where the silent sand cities cast long shadows of a blackness so intense as to be comparable only to those of electric light. Indeed, this Oriental moonlight has nothing of that quality of softness—the half-revealing, half-concealing gleams, to which we are accustomed in the West. It is hard, clear, metallic. It is a peculiarity, perhaps, of this Syrian atmosphere that outlines appear so sharp that they lose, apparently, in solidity; in what artists call "the round," so that the distant view of Jerusalem, for example, has the effect of stage scenery, of an absolute lack of perspective, which makes it extraordinarily difficult to compare distances. Tonight, for instance, when a vista between the sand hills allowed us to perceive the village of Jericho, it seemed inconceivable that we should not reach it in a few minutes, and yet it was already after eleven o'clock before the splash of our horses' feet in the water, told us that we were crossing the brook Cherith.

At this point our soldier disappeared, flashed out of sight—his kind intention, as we soon found, being to arouse the haj, the solitary occupant of the hotel, and apprise him of our arrival. We had not to wait long before the gates were opened and the barking of the dogs exchanged for a kindly welcome. They were old friends, degenerate descendants of some far-away mastiff, and still more distant collie, who had made mésalliances with some son or daughter of the soil, and left traces of another race, much as we trace the Crusader in the blue eyes and fair hair, of which specimens remain, here and there, in almost every village in Syria.