The sky was laden with a storm that became the snowstorm; and it was the time at which the old Jews beat their hands and mourn over what are believed to be the last stones of the Temple.

There was a movement in my own mind that was attuned to these things, and impressed by the strait limits and steep sides of that platform of the mountains; for the sense of crisis is not only in the intensity of the ideals, but in the very conditions of the reality, the reality with which this chapter began.

And the burden of it is the burden of Palestine; the narrowness of the boundaries and the stratification of the rock.
A voice not of my reason but rather sounding heavily in my heart, seemed to be repeating sentences like pessimistic proverbs.
There is no place for the Temple of Solomon but on the ruins of the Mosque of Omar.

There is no place for the nation of the Jews but in the country of the Arabs.

And these whispers came to me first not as intellectual conclusions upon the conditions of the case, of which I should have much more to say and to hope; but rather as hints of something immediate and menacing and yet mysterious.
I felt almost a momentary impulse to flee from the place, like one who has received an omen.