The servant scratched his moth-eaten head, shuffled off, and returned with a bundle of twigs that were soon crackling in the tiny sheet-iron stove.
On Sunday I had nothing much to do; so I pushed through the howling mob of peddlers at the gate of the city, and strolled southward along a road from which I could see, now and then, the sparkling waters of the Dead Sea. A few hours later I climbed into the wind-swept village of Bethlehem.
Standing like a fortress at the center of the town is the Church of the Nativity, built over the site of the manger where Christ was born. The rough stone walls on each side of the low doorway of this church are so blackened by the hands of centuries of pilgrims that the entrance looks like a huge rat-hole. Had it been Christmas Eve while I was there, I should have seen a great procession of priests, clergymen, and Turkish soldiers carrying waxen candles and marching to the basement of the church, where a waxen baby to represent the infant Jesus lies in a marble manger, on cushions of red silk with a layer of straw beneath. I should have heard the oldest priest of the procession sing the story of Christ’s birth, while outside in the streets the people feasted and sang merry songs until morning. As it was, however, I went inside to see nothing more exciting than Christians of many beliefs worshiping in different parts of the church.
That afternoon I returned to Jerusalem. The Englishman came next morning with another letter, which I wrote in French and returned to him at noon. Then, having paid my bill at the hotel, I went to tell the consul that I was about to leave the city.
“How much money have you?” he asked.
“About two dollars.”
“Good! Now, my lad, take my advice. There is a steamer leaving Jaffa for Egypt to-night. Take the afternoon train,—ten francs will more than pay your fare,—and once in Jaffa perhaps you can get work on the steamer to pay your passage across. Ask the American consul there to give you his assistance.”
“I can save money by walking,” I had the courage to say.
“Impossible!” cried the consul. “It is forty miles to Jaffa. The ship leaves at noon, and there is not another for ten days. Take the train; you can’t walk there in time.”
In spite of the consul’s advice, I spent half my money for a roll of films, and struck out on foot to the coast. Long after dark I found a place to sleep in Latron, the home of the thief who was crucified with Christ.