It was cruel to urge the crippled horses, but it had to be done in order to make Damascus Saturday night.

We saw ancient tombs and temples of fanciful architecture carved out of the solid rock high up in the face of precipices above our heads, but we had neither time nor strength to climb up there and examine them.

The terse language of my note-book will answer for the rest of this day's experiences: "Broke camp at 7 A.M., and made a ghastly trip through the Zeb Dana valley and the rough mountains--horses limping and that Arab screech-owl that does most of the singing and carries the water-skins, always a thousand miles ahead, of course, and no water to drink--will he never die?
Beautiful stream in a chasm, lined thick with pomegranate, fig, olive and quince orchards, and nooned an hour at the celebrated Baalam's Ass Fountain of Figia, second in size in Syria, and the coldest water out of Siberia--guide-books do not say Baalam's ass ever drank there--somebody been imposing on the pilgrims, may be.

Bathed in it--Jack and I.

Only a second--ice-water.