“That will be at daylight, I hope,” put in Macauley.
When next the sun rose above the plateaux, the war-planes had lifted for flight to the great maritime plain at the west of the Jordan, a wonderful journey, over a country of stones, caves, tombs, ruins, battlefields, sites hallowed by traditions—all bathed in an atmosphere of legend and marvel.
Drawing near now to Jerusalem, “The Holy,” one of the most ancient and interesting cities in the world, the aviators from afar could see its walls outlined three thousand feet above the sea.
Approaching this center of pilgrimage in an aeroplane! Dashing toward the “wall of David” in a buzz-boat of the air! “Something to remember,” thought Billy, steering for one of the five city gates now in use.
When the war-planes skidded in the train of a procession of mules and camels, there was considerable of a scare along the line, and the aviators were soon surrounded by a curious bunch of Bedouins. It was just a babel to the airmen, until there stepped from the press of strange humanity one of authoritative manner, a Hebrew of advanced age and apparent consequence.
It struck the travelers all in a heap, the marked similarity of type between the Jew of Damascus and the man who stood before them.
The latter intently surveyed both the flying machines and flyers before he spoke, and in English, for he saw that the four were but poor imitations of Turks.
“Came you this way or that?” he questioned, pointing in turn to the flanking valleys at all points of the compass.
“From the north,” promptly replied Billy.
It just then occurred to the boy to produce the scroll given to him by the Damascus patriarch. “To any Jew,” the latter had said, and here was a goodly specimen of the race within easy reach.