After the smoking was over black coffee was served in small cups holding about one-fourth as much as the average teacup.  They sip this slowly and talk.  I note that frequently they are saying something about “hawadje,” and then they fix their eyes upon me.  My dragoman tells me that he has been explaining our hard trip to Gerasa, that they were skeptical about it, but that he has convinced them of its verity.

But now it is time for the service.  Mr. Mitry opens his Bible and reads in Arabic the story of Moses’ invitation to Hobab.  Then he expounds the Scripture for some time while the men listen with rapt attention.  There are some questions and answers.  I understand only a word now and then, but it is a picture of more than ordinary interest to me to look upon the expectant, and then the satisfied faces of these natives.

When the lesson was over a request came from the men for me to speak to them.  Through my dragoman as interpreter I spoke a little while on the theme of the evening, which meant much to me there where the migration of Moses was in a measure felt by the early inhabitants.  They listened attentively, and when I had finished they told my guide to say to “hawadje” that they wanted him to stay and make his home with them.  Then, the meeting over, they moved out into the darkness with graceful “salaams,” and with the promise of one of their number to accompany us on the morrow.  They said we must not go on alone.

The service-room is now to be my bed-room.  A pallet is brought to me, and on it I am soon trying to sleep.  But the beautiful sun-set, the vision of the past of this region, the mission-service, the stillness of the night—­so still that the very silence seems audible—­keep me awake for some time.  I am lying by the “watch-tower of Gilead.”  I seem to see the Spirit of Prophecy standing on its broken battlements, wrapped in the shadows of the night, looking hopefully toward the place of sun-rising.  I call to him, “Watchman, what of the night?” In sweet tones of assurance comes the answer, “The morning cometh!  The story of the Christ will yet transform the darkness that rests here into the brightness of noonday.”  Then a sweet peace seemed wafted into my soul from out the unseen somewhere,—­but certainly from Him who “giveth his beloved sleep.”

“Down to the Jordan”

CHAPTER VII.

It was early on the following morning when our horses were led around to the door of the mission-house, but notwithstanding the early hour a dozen or more of the natives were standing in line to receive medical attention from the missionary.  A few were there who seemed to have come to witness our departure.  Our guide, promised the night before, was on hand, mounted, ready to lead the way over what proved to be by far the roughest part of my trip.  For that day my party consisted of four persons.  Our new leader, whose name I did not learn, was a man of about fifty years, and was a genuine Arab in appearance and dress.  But he wore nothing on his feet—­not even sandals.  I felt better satisfied, knowing that he would lead the way on that day, for my dragoman was not familiar with that part of Gilead.  However, when toward the middle of the afternoon we descended into the Jordan Valley, he was quite at home again.