“Time passed on and the Israelites turned from the God of heaven to worship at the shrines of other gods.  Then, to punish them for their sin God sent a strange invader into these mountains who carried away the people by thousands into cruel captivity in a land far toward the sun-rising.

“Later the Romans came and planted olive trees and built fine cities and established enduring roads.  But Rome is fallen, and where she moved in power and splendor ruin only remains, and the unambitious, ignorant Bedouin feeds his flock and lives in idleness amidst broken down terraces and thorn-covered fertile soil.  Desolate!  Yes, dark is the picture.  But, what of the night?  Take your place again on the ‘watch-tower of Gilead’ and scan well the horizon.  Yes, it is well; the morning cometh!”

Having given myself up to reverie and to communing with the spirit of history, as it were, I was for a time forgetful of my surroundings.  The twilight had deepened when I again turned my thoughts to the village and its people.  I look up at some of the houses near me and see a number of the natives in their dark robes standing like statues on the flat roofs of their homes, yet watching every movement of the stranger that has so unexpectedly appeared in their midst.  I do not fear them, but somehow a feeling of unrest steals over me; they seem like shades of departed Israelites back again from their long sleep.  In the gathering gloom I pass quickly into the mission-house near by.

This proves to be an evening full of interest to me.  I learn that a mission-service is soon to begin, and that a number of the villagers will be here for the service.  I am impressed with the quiet (save for the barking of dogs) that prevails in these Arab villages.  I see no drunkenness, and there is no boisterous rudeness of other sort.

In a little while a score or more of men come quietly to the mission-house, remove their sandals, pass into the room, and seat themselves on the earthen floor against the walls.  Mrs. Mitry beckons to me to come to the door; she wanted me to see that row of forty sandals.  She said in her broken way that it was interesting to her, and she thought it would interest me.

It is only a little while until Mr. Mitry enters and takes his place at a small table in the center of the room.  A half hour or more is spent in smoking cigarettes—­almost every native smokes.  Here it seems that the habit is in no sense considered a vice.  Indeed, the missionary himself, not only smokes, but assists in making cigarettes for the others.  They smoke and smoke until the room is so darkened that we see each other but dimly through the haze.  I am surprised that I can endure it.  The tobacco must be different from that used in America, for ordinarily a single cigarette is more offensive to me than was the smoke of nearly fifty on that evening—­for some of the men smoked two or three apiece in that close room.