In another quarter of an hour we were pacing through a wide Riding (as we use the term in the old English Forests for a broad avenue between woods.) This opened into a plain of rich park scenery, with timbered low hills all about, only of course no grass: in the centre of this stands Zumâreen, perched on a bold piece of rock. Many of the trees were entirely unknown to us Southerners; some of the evergreens were named to us as Maloch, etc., and there were bushes of Saris with red berries.
Out of this we emerged upon the plain of the sea-coast, at a wretched village bearing the
attractive name of Furadees (Paradise.) Here the people were sifting their corn after its thrashing, and we got a boy to refresh us with milk from his flock of goats. Only those experiencing similar circumstances of hot travelling, can conceive the pleasure of this draught, especially after having had to gallop round the boy, and coax and threaten him to sell the milk for our money.
The way lay due north, hugging to the hills parallel to the sea, but at a distance from it: numerous wadis run inland, and at the mouth of each is a village. The first was Suâmeh, the next ’Ain el Ghazâl, (Gazelles fountain,) wretched like the rest, but in a pretty situation—then Modzha, and Mazaal, and ’Ain Hhood, (a prosperous looking place,) and Teeri.
The sun set in the blue water, and we were still far from Carmel—our animals could scarcely move: sometimes we dismounted and led them—passed the notable ruins of Tantoorah, (Dora of the Bible,) and Athleet on our left—moonlight and fatigue. There was a nearer way from Zumâreen, but it would have been hilly and wearisome. After a long while we overtook our muleteers without the baggage, for the Kawwâs Salim, they said, had been so cruel to them that they had allowed him to go on with the charge towards Carmel.
At length we climbed up the steep to the convent. Being very late we experienced great difficulty in gaining admission. There was no food
allowed to the servants, no barley for the horses, and for a long time no water supplied.
In the morning we found great changes had taken place since 1846. The kind president had gone on to India—the apothecary Fra Angelo was removed to a distance—John-Baptist was at Caiffa and unwell. The whole place bore the appearance of gloom, bigotry, dirtiness, and bad management.
In the afternoon I left the convent, in order to enjoy a perfect Sabbath on the morrow in tents at the foot of the hill, open to the sea breeze of the north, and with a grand panorama stretched out before us.
And a blessed day that was. We were all in need of bodily rest, ourselves, the servants and the cattle—and it was enjoyed to the full—my young friend and I derived blessing and refreshment also from the word of God. The words, “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest,” seemed to have a reviving significance, as well as those of “Whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him, shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life.”