The sun set and we had another hour of the lovely glen to thread by starlight. At last we emerged by a gently inclined plain, which gradually became rougher, and we mounted the steep hill on which Tibneen is built. There we determined to halt for the night, as our cattle were unable to hold on to Bint el Jebail.
We pitched on the threshing floor between the village and the castle.
This castle is the citadel of all the Belâd Beshârah,
from the Leontes to Safed, and Ahhmad Bek, its owner, is called by his people “the Shaikh of Shaikhs;” by the Turkish government he is recognised as Kaimakam of the province.
The people were of ill behaviour, and talked about quarantine, but the population of the district are at all times a churlish race, being of the Sheah or ’Ali sect of Moslems; they curse and loathe our Mohammedans, and oppress the sparse families of Christians within their reach. They are called the Mutâwaleh.
At first they refused to let us have anything, till the governor, on ascertaining who we were, sent us down some lemonade; still we got but few articles of food, and our horses were left without water.
My kawwâs Salim was then taken ill from the effect of having slept the preceding night with his head uncovered, and with reluctance our own people put up the small tent that travelled with us, on purpose for them; they always prefer sleeping in open air, only covering the head well with the cloak.
This was Saturday night, and we had not an agreeable prospect for a Sabbath rest on the morrow.
The wind was strong all night on that lofty situation, but there was no dew.
In the morning, the people would not supply us with milk, even for the horses, and so it was impossible to stay there; we marched on towards