Our cavalcade now formed up, and we started off in high spirits, prepared for any adventure that might fall to our lot. Ameen, of course, led the van, his black horse gorgeously dressed in trappings of “barbaric splendour,” and he seated on a wondrous saddle, his purple silk shawl or kaffieh tied round his head and falling behind in graceful folds over the voluminous abbah, or cloak. The pair were imposing-looking objects in dignified contrast to the ludicrous figures of “Bon Jour” and his beast, who followed next in the procession.
His horse was a fearful and wonderful creature, carefully guarded against the influence of the evil eye by fantastic festoons of blue beads and shells which depended from his neck and mane and tail. Stacked upon his back were cooking pots, luncheon baskets, sunshades, wraps, and other gear, flanked by bursting saddle-bags. In the midst of these articles sat “Bon Jour,” complacently ambling on in the jog-trot style peculiar to his tribe, his brown legs dangling down, his leathern belt decorated with
“A bottle on each side
To keep his balance true.”
We brought up the rear demurely enough, trying to get our mettlesome steeds under control, with the help of “Bon Jour,” who, turning round and facing us, would yell in Arabic one moment to them, and the next encourage us with—
“Nods and becks, and wreathèd smiles,”
and the inevitable salutation in the French tongue, looking for all the world like a travelling showman on parade!
The first part of our journey lay along the Bethlehem road, which was fairly good, but has, I understand, been vastly improved for the German Emperor’s visit. On either side were smiling plains and grey olive groves, dressed in the lovely fresh hues of spring. Carpets of delicate flowers were spread on the roadside—for there are no hedges in Palestine—the air was soft and pleasant and everything took its colouring from the joyous morning.
The tomb of Rachel claimed our attention for a moment. We were quite familiar with its appearance from the many illustrations we had seen, so that the simple dome-like structure on the wayside seemed an old friend. Pious Jews, Christians, and Moslems offer their prayers at its shrine, and apparently derive equal benefit from their devotions.
A little beyond, on the slope of a hill, the pretty village of Beit Jala gleamed and glittered in the sunlight. The city of Kish, the father of King Saul, originally stood there. Was it to that hill, I wonder, the young, handsome Saul, after his election as King of Israel, returned when he “went home to Gibeah, and with him a band of men whose hearts God had touched”?