From the vantage point of this high ground we could see a goodly prospect, and on the one side the river, here called the Hindeyeh canal, with its green shore and on the other a belt of date palms and beyond the illimitable desert.  Some five or six miles away there appeared a mound surmounted by a tower, a curious object alone in the great expanse of flat land.

“What is that thing,” I asked, “that looks like a ruined castle on the Rhine?”

“The Tower of Babel,” replied the major, “or rather that is its popular name.  It is Birs Nimrud on the map.”  Brown wanted to start straight away and “discover” it, but we persuaded him to assent to lunch first.  The major was too busy for such an escapade, but he suggested lending us a Ford car which would do anything with the desert and which we could not break, so we returned to Hillah.

After lunch we set out on our expedition, Brown very silent and full, no doubt, of romantic projects, and arrived back again at the bridge where I made my sketch.  It appears that the route was not direct as far as the car was concerned, owing to the crossing of some water channels, but that on foot we should be able to do it.  I knew Brown was concocting something, and he soon let out what it was.  His scheme was to send the car round to meet us at the Tower of Babel and we would walk.  I think he rather liked the idea of saying “Tower of Babel” to the driver instead of “home.”  I consented, rather against my better judgment, for I fear Brown’s enthusiasm for dramatic settings.  His pathetic belief that my next picture for the R.A. would be entitled “The Tower of Silence,” and that I should achieve a masterpiece in depicting the blood-red ruin at sunset across the desert was somewhat disarming.  He forgot in his enthusiasm that if the sun did set when we were in the required position we should be benighted on the plain without food or shelter, and not at all in the mood for painting pictures.

[Illustration:  Ancient irrigation channel near Hillah.]

Practical difficulties still existed, inasmuch as we were for a long time unable to explain to the native driver that he was to meet us at Birs Nimrud, and feared, if we were not very explicit, he would return to Hillah and we might never be heard of again.  Brown’s pantomimic attempts at direction were obscure even to me, and I am sure the driver thought he had gone out of his mind.  They consisted in his stooping down with his hand on the ground, then rising slowly, turning round and round, his hand describing a spiral curve, till it shot up straight over his head.  Then he pointed to the car.  There was evidently some implied connection between the spiral curve and the car.  How long this would have gone on I do not know had I not tried the words “Birs Nimrud.”  The driver understood this and I think we made it clear that whatever happened he was to be at Birs Nimrud and wait for us.  So we started off on foot.