There, on the other side of the
river (you can swim it with one arm), there reigns the people that
will be like to put you to death for NOT being a vagrant, for NOT
being a robber, for NOT being armed and houseless. There is
comfort in that--health, comfort, and strength to one who is dying
from very weariness of that poor, dear, middle-aged, deserving,
accomplished, pedantic, and painstaking governess, Europe.
I had ridden for some hours along the right bank of Jordan when I
came to the Djesr el Medjame (an old Roman bridge, I believe),
which crossed the river. My Nazarene guide was riding ahead of the
party, and now, to my surprise and delight, he turned leftwards,
and led on over the bridge. I knew that the true road to Jerusalem
must be mainly by the right bank of Jordan, but I supposed that my
guide was crossing the bridge at this spot in order to avoid some
bend in the river, and that he knew of a ford lower down by which
we should regain the western bank. I made no question about the
road, for I was but too glad to set my horse's hoofs upon the land
of the wandering tribes. None of my party except the Nazarene knew
the country. On we went through rich pastures upon the eastern
side of the water.
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