He did not seem
to be annoyed in the least. True, he scratched, but he snored an
accompaniment to his scratching throughout the night. I could only
scratch and listen to him; there was no snoring for me. After that
night it required frequent bathing and much searching for a week
or ten days before I felt free from the awful pests of that filthy
den. Thus it was that my first crossing of the Jordan did not
bring me to a "land of rest," but to an experience akin to
distraction.
But now to the bridge. We pass quietly among the curious gazers
down to the river. Just south of the bridge I go down to the
river's edge and bathe my hands, face, and feet in water that only
a few hours ago was in the lake where the waves were once stilled
by His quiet command of power - "Peace, be still," and where He at
another time walked amidst the billows to meet his own; in water
that will hurry on down the valley to the place where He was
baptized; and then it will pass on into oblivion in the Salt Sea
of Death. Then I try, with surprising success, to drink of the
water like our Arab guide drank to-day. Then we walk to the
bridge, at the approach of which I ask my men to tarry while I go
out on it alone to meditate.
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