of the Good Samaritan and beginning to descend into the valley,
twelve hundred feet below sea level, that separates Palestine
from Moab. The moon shone full on the water, and it looked more
wan and wild than an illustration out of Dante's Inferno. There
was no doubt how the legends sprang up about birds falling dead
as they flew across it. It was difficult to believe that
anything could be there and not die. It was a vision of the land
of death made beautiful.

But the one-eyed Arab on the rear seat began to sing. To him
that view meant "home, sweet home." His song was all about his
village and how he loved it--what a pearl it was--how sweeter
than all cities.

"'Ark at 'im!" The driver stopped the car to fill his pipe.
"You'd think 'e lived in 'eaven! I've fought over every hinch o'
this perishin' country, an' tyke it from me, guv'nor, there ain't
a village in it but what's composed of 'ovels wi' thatched roofs,
an' 'eaps o' dung so you can't walk between 'em! Any one as
wants my share o' Palestine can 'ave it!"

We bumped on again down a road so lonely that it would have felt
good to see a wild beast, or an armed man lurking in wait for us.
But the British had accomplished the impossible: They had so
laid the fear of law along those roads that, though there might
be murders to the right and left of them, the passer-by who kept
to the road was safe, for the first time since the Romans now and
then imposed a temporary peace.

At last, like two yellow streams glistening in moonlight, the