We had been strongly advised by our Jaffa friends to take as guide for our long journeys a young English-speaking man living in Jerusalem. He was represented as thoroughly trustworthy and intelligent, besides being willing to fall in with our plans, rather than insisting upon our falling in with his. This was exactly the man we needed, and as the travellers' season was at its height, one of our first duties must be to find him. With this object in view we started one morning in search of his home. Two rival dragomen, of whom we inquired the way, assured us that Ameen—for so I will call him—was in Damascus with a party, and would not return for forty days. As this gratuitous information was imparted to us with unnecessary vehemence and exaggerated regrets, we distrusted its veracity and continued our search. Ameen's dwelling seemed to be hidden away in some remote region “far from the madding crowd,” but after many false turnings, we at length espied a neat little house standing in a garden, and a neat little woman with a baby in her arms standing in the doorway. We opened the gate and walked up the path to the young woman. “Does Ameen live here, and is he at home?” we asked in English. For answer she smiled, pointed to a divan inside the house, and by signs invited us to go in and “sit.” We did so, and continued our conversation by smiling inanely at each other, for our hostess evidently understood no other language but her own barbarous Arabic, which was the more disappointing as no Ameen was visible. He might be in Damascus after all. We were not going, however, to give up the object of our visit so easily. We must try another method of rousing Mrs. Ameen's understanding. A bright thought flashed through our mind. There was that Saracen maiden who long ages ago travelled from Palestine to England in search of her lover Gilbert à Becket. She only knew two words of English, “Gilbert” and “London,” but they were the talisman which, after many adventures, brought success, and her lover to her side. Why should not we try the effect of two words on the little woman before us? The louder you shout to an Arab the more important does he consider your communication, so we shouted “Ameen—dragoman,” accompanying our duet with gestures expressive of our desire to see him. Our hostess redoubled her smiles, and we redoubled our shouts, until “Ameen—dragoman” became a monotonous chant, which grew more despairing at each repetition. When our efforts seemed most hopeless, Mrs. Ameen allowed the light of intelligence to dawn on her countenance, and murmuring some indistinct apologies, she suddenly darted through the door and disappeared. Congratulating ourselves on our success, we waited patiently for ten minutes or so before the welcome sound of voices and footsteps sounded near at hand, and in walked our little friend, still carrying the baby, and proudly escorting the redoubtable Ameen, whose preposterous Turkish trousers gave him a swagger as consequential as that of a Highland piper. He greeted us courteously in excellent English, but as one who had been expecting us, and immediately inquired whether we had left his cousin in Jaffa in good health, and if he had told us any family news. Happily we had met the cousin, and were able to give the desired information, which was received simply and as a matter of course.
We were favourably impressed by Ameen's honest face and gentle manners, and though he looked delicate, he seemed capable. He told us that twice he had acted as guide to a celebrated English explorer and that he knew the country thoroughly. We were rather alarmed, on his producing an enormous sheaf of testimonials, and modestly requesting us to read them. If the few we glanced at were to be relied upon, our friend must be a Solomon in the matter of wisdom, a prince among guides, a servant with so many superlative qualities—we felt excessively small in his presence—while his record as a “provider” might have caused the cheek of the renowned Mr. Whitely to grow pale with envy.
Ameen was evidently a treasure (and such he afterwards proved himself to be), and must be secured, so we plunged at once into business, and for the next half-hour discussed routes and other minutiæ. The bargain was concluded by Ameen agreeing to take us for a four days' trip to Jericho, and a five or seven days' trip to Tiberias. The charges were to be a pound a day each. He was to provide everything, including good horses, and saddles, a muleteer, and when necessary an armed escort, which a thoughtful government—with an eye to backsheesh—insisted upon, lest the confiding traveller should fall among thieves. As the escort was invariably chosen from a tribe of raiders, the moral was obvious. We considered these terms very moderate for this time of the year, especially so, as the party was to consist only of Elizabeth and myself.
We further stipulated for the horses and saddles to be brought round for our inspection the evening before we started on our journey. Everything being now satisfactorily settled, we partook of coffee, said good-bye to the little wife, kissed the baby, who resented deeply the familiarity, and, preceded by our picturesque guide, who had already assumed an air of proprietorship, made our way into the city, where we dismissed him and continued our prowl unattended.
On one of our excursions we took part in an adventure which might have ended seriously to one of the party. Looking back now, it seems like a modern version of the story of the Good Samaritan.
It was a hot afternoon in April when Elizabeth and I, accompanied by Elias, Miss K.'s native servant, carrying a tea-basket, set out for Neby Samwîl, the ancient Mizpeh, where we intended picnicking.
As we were riding slowly down the hill in the direction of Jerusalem, we noticed afar off an unusual cloud of dust, out of which there presently emerged a horseman riding furiously. Almost before we could exclaim he had turned the sharp corner by the Pool of Hinnom and was tearing madly on towards us. In another moment the horse wheeled suddenly round and, flinging its rider to the earth, galloped back to the city gate.
We reined up near the unfortunate man, who lay stretched out unconscious in the middle of the road, a tropical sun beating fiercely on his uncovered head, and the blood slowly trickling from a nasty wound in the temple.
In an incredibly short space of time a crowd collected. White-sheeted women, like flocks of seagulls, scudded down the hill slopes, and were joined by dark-faced men, who seemed to spring from nowhere.
They stared with much curiosity at the little group below, but neither signs nor talking could induce them to approach nearer than the stone wall which bounded the road. They answered our appeals by jabbering among themselves like so many monkeys, pointing at us and gesticulating excitedly. Clearly we were each unintelligible to the other.