On the twenty-eighth day, about eleven o'clock P. M., weary from the long day journey, I dined again on tea and toast, and with my boots on dropped on my cot, just for a moment; and seemingly before the moment had passed the morning sun peeped in and awoke me from my sweet dream of home. I awoke Jona, and while the camp still slumbered we ascended a rise of ground to gaze on that silent form of grandeurs which lay before us, full twenty miles away. As far as the eye could penetrate, north and south, the Syrian highlands, long known as the haunt of the most ferocious Bedouins, loomed up, where about in the center, seemingly imbedded in the glistening cliff, lay the ruins of the once proud city of Tadmor, the queen of the desert. For, while Nineveh and Babylon at their best were old gray monks, Tadmor, in the days of David, with her stately granite columns from the Nile, coquetted with the morning sun like a maiden in her teens. Breakfast again of tea and toast, when Jona and I, with a guard of twelve horsemen, started for a run over the hilly plain which lay between us and the ruins, leaving the wives and other luggage to come along with the caravan, which would reach Tadmor some time before next morning. Before starting I promised our escorts a piece of silver each if we should reach the ruins in an hour. The morning was bright and the ride was inspiring, but very tame compared to the wild ride at Nazzip, for we |