Regard for the ladies (of course no
other earthly consideration) made us say, "No!" What admirable
self-denial and chivalrous devotion!
So our poor devils of mules
and horses got no rest and no water, our panting litter-men no
breathing time, and we staggered desperately after the procession
ahead of us. It wound up the mountain in front of us: the Poles
with their guns and attendants, the American with his janissaries;
fifty or sixty all riding slowly like the procession in
"Bluebeard."
But alas, they headed us very soon; when we got up the weary hill
they were all out of sight. Perhaps thoughts of Fleet Street did
cross the minds of some of us then, and a vague desire to see a few
policemen. The district now seemed peopled, and with an ugly race.
Savage personages peered at us out of huts, and grim holes in the
rocks. The mules began to loiter most abominably - water the
muleteers must have - and, behold, we came to a pleasant-looking
village of trees standing on a hill; children were shaking figs
from the trees - women were going about - before us was the mosque of
a holy man - the village, looking like a collection of little forts,
rose up on the hill to our right, with a long view of the fields
and gardens stretching from it, and camels arriving with their
burdens. Here we must stop; Paolo, the chief servant, knew the
Sheikh of the village - he very good man - give him water and supper-
-water very good here - in fact we began to think of the propriety
of halting here for the night, and making our entry into Jerusalem
on the next day.
A man on a handsome horse dressed in red came prancing up to us,
looking hard at the ladies in the litter, and passed away. Then
two others sauntered up, one handsome, and dressed in red too, and
he stared into the litter without ceremony, began to play with a
little dog that lay there, asked if we were Inglees, and was
answered by me in the affirmative. Paolo had brought the water,
the most delicious draught in the world. The gentlefolks had had
some, the poor muleteers were longing for it. The French maid, the
courageous Victoire (never since the days of Joan of Arc has there
surely been a more gallant and virtuous female of France) refused
the drink; when suddenly a servant of the party scampers up to his
master and says: "Abou Gosh says the ladies must get out and show
themselves to the women of the village!"
It was Abou Gosh himself, the redoubted robber Sheikh about whom we
had been laughing and crying "Wolf!" all day. Never was seen such
a skurry! "March!" was the instant order given. When Victoire
heard who it was and the message, you should have seen how she
changed countenance; trembling for her virtue in the ferocious
clutches of a Gosh.
Enter page number
PreviousNext
Page 83 of 126
Words from 42985 to 43484
of 65663
