The Bertrams

  CHAPTER VI.

  JERUSALEM.

  But there was no quarrel between George Bertram uncle and GeorgeBertram nephew: though in such conversations as they had aboutbusiness they were not over civil to each other, still they went ontogether as good friends, at any rate as they ever had been. Indeed,after the last scene which has been reported, the old man became morecourteous to his nephew, and before the three months were over wasalmost cordial.

  There was that about George the younger which made the old unclerespect him, despite himself. The London merchant had a thoroughcontempt for his brother, the soldier of fortune: he had acted ashe had done on behalf of that brother's son almost more with theview of showing his contempt, and getting thereby an opportunity forexpressing it, than with any fixed idea of doing a kindness. He hadcounted also on despising the son as he had despised the father; buthere he found himself foiled. George had taken all that he had given,as any youth would take what an uncle gave; but he had never askedfor more: he had done as well as it was possible for him to do inthat line of education which had been tendered to him; and now,though he would not become an attorney or a merchant, was prepared toearn his own bread, and professed that he was able to support himselfwithout further assistance from any one.

  Before the three months were over, his uncle had more than once askedhim to prolong his visit; but George had made up his mind to leaveHadley. His purpose was to spend three or four months in going outto his father, and then to settle in London. In the meantime, heemployed himself with studying the law of nations, and amused hisleisure hours with Coke and Blackstone.

  "You'll never find your father," said Mr. Bertram.

  "At any rate, I'll try; and if I miss him, I shall see something ofthe world."

  "You'll see more in London in three months than you will there intwelve; and, moreover, you would not lose your time."

  But George was inexorable, and before the three months were over hehad started on his trip.

  "I beg your pardon, Mr. George," said Mr. Pritchett to him the daybefore he went (his uncle had requested him to call on Pritchett inthe city)--"I beg your pardon, Mr. George, but if I may be allowed tospeak a word or so, I do hope you'll write a line now and then to theold gentleman while you are away."

  Now George had never written a line to his uncle in his life; all hiscommunications as to his journeys and proposed arrivals had, by hisuncle's special direction, been made to the housekeeper, and he hadno present intention of commencing a correspondence.

  "Write to him, Mr. Pritchett! No, I don't suppose I shall. I take it,my uncle does not much care for such letters as I should write."

  "Ah! but he would, Mr. George. You shouldn't be too quick to takepersons by their appearances. It's half a million of money, you know,Mr. George; half--a--million--of--money!" And Mr. Pritchett put greatstress on the numeration of his patron's presumed wealth.

  "Half a million, is it? Well, that's a great deal, no doubt; and Ifully see the force of your excellent argument. But I fear there isnothing to be done in that line: I'm not born to be the heir to halfa million of money; you might see that in my face."

  Mr. Pritchett stared at him very hard. "Well, I can't say that I do,Mr. George; but take my word for it, the old gentleman is very fondof you."

  "Very fond! That's a little too strong, isn't it?"

  "That is, if he's very fond of anything. Now, he said to meyesterday, 'Pritchett,' says he, 'that boy's going to Bagdad.''What! Mr. George?' says I. 'Yes,' says he; 'and to Hong Kong too, Isuppose, before he comes back: he's going after his father;' and thenhe gave one of those bitter looks, you know. 'That's a pity,' saysI, for you know one must humour him. 'He is a fool,' says your uncle,'and always will be.'"

  "I'm sure, Mr. Pritchett, I'm very much obliged for the trouble youare at in telling me."

  "Oh! I think nothing of the trouble. 'And he knows no more aboutmoney,' says your uncle, 'than an ostrich. He can't go to Bagdad outof his allowance.' 'Of course he can't,' said I. 'You had better putthree hundred pounds to his credit,' said the old gentleman; and so,Mr. George, I have."

  "I could have done very well without it, Mr. Pritchett."

  "Perhaps so; but three hundred pounds never hurt anybody--never, Mr.George; and I can tell you this: if you play your cards well, youmay be the old gentleman's heir, in spite of all he says to thecontrary."

  "At any rate, Mr. Pritchett, I'm very much obliged to you:" and sothey parted.

  "He'll throw that three hundred pounds in my teeth the next time Isee him," said George to himself.

  Good as Mr. Pritchett's advice undoubtedly was, Bertram did not takeit; and his uncle received no line from him during the whole periodof his absence. Our hero's search after his father was not quite ofso intricate a nature as was supposed by his uncle, nor so difficultas that made by Japhet under similar circumstances. His route was tobe by Paris, Marseilles, Malta, Alexandria, Jaffa, Jerusalem, andDamascus, and he had written to Sir Lionel, requesting him to writeto either or all of those addresses. Neither in France, nor Malta,nor Egypt did he receive any letters; but in the little town ofJaffa, where he first put his foot on Asiatic soil, a despatch fromhis father was awaiting him. Sir Lionel was about to leave Persia,and was proceeding to Constantinople on public service; but he wouldgo out of his course to meet his son at Jerusalem.

  The tone of Sir Lionel's letter was very unlike that of Mr. Bertram'sconversation. He heartily congratulated his son on the splendidsuccess of his degree; predicted for him a future career bothbrilliant and rich; declared that it was the dearest wish of hisheart to embrace his son, and spoke of their spending a few weekstogether at Jerusalem almost with rapture.

  This letter very much delighted George. He had a natural anxiety tothink well of his father, and had not altogether believed the evilthat had been rather hinted than spoken of him by Mr. Bertram. Thecolonel had certainly not hitherto paid him very much parentalattention, and had generally omitted to answer the few letterswhich George had written to him. But a son is not ill inclined toaccept acts of new grace from a father; and there was something sodelightful in the tone and manner of Sir Lionel's letter, it was sofriendly as well as affectionate, so perfectly devoid of the dull,monotonous, lecture-giving asperity with which ordinary fathers toooften season their ordinary epistles, that he was in raptures withhis newly-found correspondent.

  "I would not miss seeing you for worlds," wrote Sir Lionel; "andalthough I have been ordered to Constantinople with all the_immediate haste_ which your civil-service grandees always usein addressing us military slaves, it shall go hard with me but Iwill steal a fortnight from them in order to pass it with you atJerusalem. I suppose I shall scarce know you, or you me; but whenyou see an old gentleman in a military frock, with a bald head, ahook nose, and a rather short allowance of teeth, you may then besure that you look upon your father. However, I will be at Z----'sHotel--I believe they honour the caravansary with that name--as soonas possible after the 14th."

  His uncle had at any rate been quite wrong in predicting that hisfather would keep out of his way. So far was this from being thecase, that Sir Lionel was going to put himself to considerableinconvenience to meet him. It might be, and no doubt was the case,that Mr. Bertram the merchant had put together a great deal moremoney than Colonel Bertram the soldier; but the putting togetherof money was no virtue in George's eyes; and if Sir Lionel had notremitted a portion of his pay as regularly as he perhaps should havedone, that should not now be counted as a vice. It may perhaps besurmised that had George Bertram suffered much in consequence of hisfather's negligence in remitting, he might have been disposed to lookat the matter in a different light.

  He had brought but one servant with him, a dragoman whom he hadpicked up at Malta, and with him he started on his ride from the cityof oranges. Oranges grow plentifully enough in Spain, in Malta, inEgypt, in Jamaica, and other places, but within five miles of Jaffanothing else is grown--if we except the hedges of prickly pear whichdivide the gardens. Orange ga
rden succeeds to orange garden till onefinds oneself on the broad open desert that leads away to Jerusalem.

  There is something enticing to an Englishman in the idea of ridingoff through the desert with a pistol girt about his waist, aportmanteau strapped on one horse before him, and an only attendantseated on another behind him. There is a _soupcon_ of danger in thejourney just sufficient to give it excitement; and then it is soun-English, oriental, and inconvenient; so opposed to the accustomedhaste and comfort of a railway; so out of his hitherto beaten way oflife, that he is delighted to get into the saddle. But it may be aquestion whether he is not generally more delighted to get out of it;particularly if that saddle be a Turkish one.

  George had heard of Arab horses, and the clouds of dust which risefrom their winged feet. When first he got beyond the hedges of theorange gardens, he expected to gallop forth till he found himselfbeneath the walls of Jerusalem. But he had before him many an hourof tedious labour ere those walls were seen. His pace was about fourmiles an hour. During the early day he strove frequently to mend it;but as the sun became hot in the heavens, his efforts after speedwere gradually reduced, and long before evening he had begun to thinkthat Jerusalem was a myth, his dragoman an impostor, and his Arabsteed the sorriest of jades.

  "It is the longest journey I ever took in my life," said George.

  "Longest; yes. A top of two mountain more, and two go-down, and thenthere; yes," said the dragoman, among whose various accomplishmentsthat of speaking English could hardly be reckoned as the mostprominent.

  At last the two mountains more and the two go-downs were performed,and George was informed that the wall he saw rising sharp from therocky ground was Jerusalem. There is something very peculiar in thefirst appearance of a walled city that has no suburbs or extramuraladjuncts. It is like that of a fortress of cards built craftily ona table. With us in England it is always difficult to say where thecountry ends and where the town begins; and even with the walledtowns of the Continent, one rarely comes upon them so as to see thesharp angles of a gray stone wall shining in the sun, as they do inthe old pictures of the cities in "Pilgrim's Progress."

  But so it is with Jerusalem. One rides up to the gate feelingthat one is still in the desert; and yet a moment more, with thepermission of those very dirty-looking Turkish soldiers at the gate,will place one in the city. One rides up to the gate, and as everyone now has a matured opinion as to the taking of casemated batteriesand the inefficiency of granite bastions, one's first idea is howdelightfully easy it would be to take Jerusalem. It is at any rateeasy enough to enter it, for the dirty Turkish soldiers do not evenlook at you, and you soon become pleasantly aware that you are beyondthe region of passports.

  George Bertram had promised himself that the moment in which he firstsaw Jerusalem should be one of intense mental interest; and when,riding away from the orange gardens at Jaffa, he had endeavoured tourge his Arab steed into that enduring gallop which was to carry himup to the city of the sepulchre, his heart was ready to melt intoecstatic pathos as soon as that gallop should have been achieved.But the time for ecstatic pathos had altogether passed away beforehe rode in at that portal. He was then swearing vehemently at hisfloundering jade, and giving up to all the fiends of Tartarus theaccursed saddle which had been specially contrived with the view oflacerating the nether Christian man.

  "Where on earth is this d---- hotel?" said he, when he and hisdragoman and portmanteau had been floundering for about five minutesdown a steep, narrow, ill-paved lane, with a half-formed gully inthe middle, very slippery with orange-peel and old vegetables, andcrowded with the turbans of all the Eastern races. "Do you call thisa street?" After all his sentiment, all his emotions, all his piousresolves, it was thus that our hero entered Jerusalem! But what pietycan withstand the wear and tear of twelve hours in a Turkish saddle?

  "Is this a street?" said he. It was the main street in Jerusalem. Thefirst, or among the first in grandeur of those sacred ways which hehad intended hardly to venture to pass with shoes on his feet. Hishorse turning a corner as he followed the dragoman again slipped andalmost fell. Whereupon Bertram again cursed. But then he was notonly tired and sore, but very hungry also. Our finer emotions shouldalways be encouraged with a stomach moderately full.

  At last they stopped at a door in a wall, which the dragomanpronounced to be the entrance of Z----'s hotel. In fact they had notyet been full ten minutes within the town; but the streets certainlywere not well paved. In five minutes more, George was in his room,strewing sofas and chairs with the contents of his portmanteau, andinquiring with much energy what was the hour fixed for the tabled'hote. He found, with much inward satisfaction, that he had justtwenty minutes to prepare himself. At Jerusalem, as elsewhere, theseafter all are the traveller's first main questions. When is the tabled'hote? Where is the cathedral? At what hour does the train startto-morrow morning? It will be some years yet, but not very many,before the latter question is asked at Jerusalem.

  Bertram had arrived about a fortnight before Easter, and the townwas already full of pilgrims, congregated for that ceremony, and ofEnglish and Americans who had come to look at the pilgrims.

  The inn was nearly full, and George, when he entered the public room,heard such a Babel of English voices, and such a clatter of Englishspoons that he might have fancied himself at the top of the _Righi_or in a Rhine steamboat. But the subjects under discussion allsavoured of the Holy Land.

  "Mrs. Rose, we are going to have a picnic on Monday in the Valley ofJehoshaphat; will you and your young ladies join us? We shall sendthe hampers to the tomb of Zachariah."

  "Thank you, Miss Todd; we should have been so happy; but we have onlythree days to do Bethlehem, the Dead Sea, and Jericho. We must be offto-morrow."

  "Mamma, I lost my parasol somewhere coming down the Mount of Offence.Those nasty Arab children must have stolen it."

  "They say the people in Siloam are the greatest thieves in Syria; andnobody dares to meddle with them."

  "But I saw it in your hand, my dear, at the Well of Enrogel."

  "What, no potatoes! there were potatoes yesterday. Waiter, waiter;who ever heard of setting people down to dinner without potatoes?"

  "Well, I didn't know what to say to it. If that is the tomb ofNicodemus, that seems to settle the question. May I trouble you forthe salt?"

  "Mr. Pott, I won't have anything more to say to you; you have nofaith. I believe it all."

  "What, all? from Calvary upstairs in the gallery down to the darkcorner where the cock crew?"

  "Yes, all, Mr. Pott. Why should not a cock crow there as well asanywhere else? It is so beautiful to believe."

  George Bertram found himself seated next to a lady-like well-dressedEnglishwoman of the middle age, whom he heard called Miss Baker; andnext to her again sat--an angel! whom Miss Baker called Caroline,and whom an odious man sitting on the other side of her called MissWaddington.

  All my readers will probably at different times have made part of atable-d'hote assemblage; and most of them, especially those who havetravelled with small parties, will know how essential it is to one'scomfort to get near to pleasant neighbours. The young man's idea of apleasant neighbour is of course a pretty girl. What the young ladies'idea may be I don't pretend to say. But it certainly does seem to behappily arranged by Providence that the musty fusty people, and thenicy spicy people, and the witty pretty people do severally assembleand get together as they ought to do.

  Bertram's next-door neighbour was certainly of the nicy spicy order;but this did not satisfy him. He would have been very well pleased totalk to Miss Baker had it not been for the close contiguity of MissWaddington; and even her once-removed vicinity would not have madehim unhappy had not that odious man on her left had so much to sayabout the village of Emmaus and the Valley of Ajalon.

  Now, be it known to all men that Caroline Waddington is our donnaprimissima--the personage of most importance in these pages. It isfor her that you are to weep, with her that you are to sympathize,and at her that
you are to wonder. I would that I could find itcompatible with my duty to introduce her to this circle without anyminute details of her bodily and mental charms; but I have alreadybeen idle in the case of Adela Gauntlet, and I feel that a donnaprimissima has claims to description which I cannot get over.Only not exactly now; in a few chapters hence we shall have MissWaddington actively engaged upon the scene, and then she shall bedescribed.

  It must suffice now to say that she was an orphan; that since herfather's death she had lived with her aunt, Miss Baker, chieflyat Littlebath; that Miss Baker had, at her niece's instance, beento Egypt, up the Nile, across the short desert--(short!) havingtravelled from Cairo to Jerusalem,--and that now, thoroughly sick ofthe oriental world, she was anxious only to get back to Littlebath;while Caroline, more enthusiastic, and much younger, urged her to goon to Damascus and Lebanon, to Beyrout and Smyrna, and thence home,merely visiting Constantinople and Athens on the way.

  Had Bertram heard the terms in which Miss Waddington spoke of theyouth who was so great about Ajalon when she and her aunt were intheir own room, and also the words in which that aunt spoke of him,perhaps he might have been less provoked.

  "Aunt, that Mr. M'Gabbery is an ass. I am sure he has ears if onecould only see them. I am so tired of him. Don't you think we couldget on to Damascus to-morrow?"

  "If we did I have no doubt he'd come too." Mr. M'Gabbery had been oneof the party who crossed the desert with them from Cairo.

  "Impossible, aunt. The Hunters are ready to start to-morrow, or, ifnot, the day after, and I know they would not have him."

  "But, my dear, I really am not equal to Damascus. A few more days ona camel--"

  "But, aunt, you'll have a horse."

  "That's worse, I'm sure. And, moreover, I've found an old friend, andone that you will like very much."

  "What, that exceedingly ugly young man that sat next to you?"

  "Yes. That exceedingly ugly young man I remember as the prettiestbaby in the world--not that I think he is ugly. He is, however, noother than the nephew of Mr. Bertram."

  "What, papa's Mr. Bertram?"

  "Yes; your father's Mr. Bertram. Therefore, if old Mr. Bertram shoulddie, and this young man should be his heir, he would have the chargeof all your money. You'd better be gracious to him."

  "How odd! But what is he like?"

  "He is one of the cleverest young men of the day. I had heard that hehad distinguished himself very much at Oxford; and he certainly is amost agreeable companion." And so it was arranged between them thatthey would not start to Damascus as yet, in spite of any evil thatMr. M'Gabbery might inflict on them.

  On the next morning at breakfast, Bertram managed to separate theaunt from the niece by sitting between them. It was long, however,before Mr. M'Gabbery gave up the battle. When he found that aninterloper was interfering with his peculiar property, he began totax his conversational powers to the utmost. He was greater thanever about Ajalon, and propounded some very startling theories withreference to Emmaus. He recalled over and over again the interestingbits of their past journey; how tired they had been at Gaza, wherehe had worked for the ladies like a slave--how terribly Miss Bakerhad been frightened in the neighbourhood of Arimathea, where he,Mr. M'Gabbery, had specially looked to his pistols with the view ofwaging war on three or four supposed Bedouins who were seen to behovering on the hill-sides. But all would not do. Miss Waddington wasalmost tired of Gaza and Arimathea, and Miss Baker seemed to have adecided preference for London news. So at last Mr. M'Gabbery becamesilent and grand, and betook himself to his associations and a map ofPalestine in a corner.

  Bertram, when fortified with a night's rest and a good breakfast, wasable to recover his high-toned feeling, and, thus armed, proceededalone to make his first visit to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.It was a Sunday, the last Sunday in Lent; and he determined to hearmass in the Greek Church, and ascertain for himself how much devotionan English Protestant could experience in the midst of this foreignworship. But one mass was over and another not begun when he reachedthe building, and he had thus time to follow his dragoman to thevarious wonders of that very wonderful building.

  It is now generally known in England of what the church of the holyplaces consists; but no one who has not seen it, and none, indeed,who have not seen it at Easter-time, can fully realize all theabsurdity which it contains and all the devotion which it occasions.Bertram was first carried to the five different churches which havecrowded themselves together under the same roof. The Greeks have byfar the best of it. Their shrine is gaudy and glittering, and theirtemple is large and in some degree imposing. The Latins, whom we callRoman Catholics, are much less handsomely lodged, and their tinselis by far more dingy. The Greeks, too, possess the hole in whichstood--so they say--the cross of Our Saviour; while the Latins areobliged to put up with the sites on which the two thieves werecrucified. Then the church of the Armenians, for which you have todescend almost into the bowels of the earth, is still less grand inits pretensions, is more sombre, more dark, more dirty; but it is asthe nave of St. Peter's when compared to the poor wooden-cased altarof the Abyssinians, or the dark unfurnished gloomy cave in whichthe Syrian Christians worship, so dark that the eye cannot at firstdiscover its only ornament--a small ill-made figure of the crucifiedRedeemer.

  We who are accustomed to Roman Catholic gorgeousness in Italy andFrance can hardly at first understand why the Pope here shouldplayso decidedly a second fiddle. But as he is held to be God'sviceregent among the people of south-western Europe, so is theRussian emperor among the Christians of the East. He, the Russian, isstill by far the greatest pope in Jerusalem, and is treated with amuch greater respect, a much truer belief, than is his brother ofRome, even among Romans.

  Five or six times Bertram had attempted to get into the Tabernacle ofthe Holy Sepulchre; but so great had been the rush of pilgrims, thathe had hitherto failed. At last his dragoman espied a lull, and wentagain to the battle. To get into the little outside chapel, whichforms, as it were, a vestibule to the cell of the sepulchre, and fromwhich on Easter Saturday issue the miraculous flames, was a thing tobe achieved by moderate patience. His close contiguity to Candiotesand Copts, to Armenians and Abyssinians was not agreeable to ourhero, for the contiguity was very close, and Christians of thesenations are not very cleanly. But this was nothing to the task ofentering the sanctum sanctorum. To this there is but one aperture,and that is but four feet high; men entering it go in head foremost,and those retreating come out in the other direction; and as it isimpossible that two should pass, and as two or three are alwaystrying to come out, and ten or twelve equally anxious to get in, thestruggle to an Englishman is disagreeably warm, though to an Orientalit is probably matter of interesting excitement.

  But for his dragoman, Bertram would never have succeeded. He,however, so pulled and hauled these anxious devotees, so thrust inthose who endeavoured to come out, and clawed back those who stroveto get in, that the passage became for a moment clear, and our hero,having bent low his head, found himself standing with his hand on themarble slab of the tomb.

  Those who were there around him seemed to be the outcasts of theworld, exactly those whom he would have objected to meet, unarmed, onthe roads of Greece or among the hills of Armenia; cut-throat-lookingwretches, with close-shaven heads, dirty beards, and angry eyes; menclothed in skins, or huge skin-like-looking cloaks, filthy, foul,alive with vermin, reeking with garlic,--abominable to an Englishman.There was about them a certain dignity of demeanour, a naturalaptitude to carry themselves with ease, and even a not impure tastefor colour among their dirt. But these Christians of the RussianChurch hardly appeared to him to be brothers of his own creed.

  But he did put his hand on the slab of the tomb; and as he did so,two young Greeks, brothers by blood--Greeks by their creed, though ofwhat actual nation Bertram was quite unable say--pressed their lipsvehemently to the marble. They were dirty, shorn about the head,dangerous looking, and skin-clothed, as we have described; men verylow in the scale of
humanity when compared with their fellow-pilgrim;but, nevertheless, they were to him at that moment objects of envy.They believed: so much at any rate was clear to him. By whatever codeof morals they might be able to govern their lives, whether by any,or as, alas! might be too likely, by none, at least they possessed afaith. Christ to them was an actual living truth, though they knewhow to worship him no better than by thus kissing a stone, which hadin fact no closer reference to the Saviour than any other stone theymight have kissed in their own country. They believed; and as theyreverently pressed their foreheads, lips, and hands to the top andsides and edges of the sepulchre, their faith became ecstatic. It wasthus that Bertram would fain have entered that little chapel, thusthat he would have felt, thus that he would have acted had he beenable. So had he thought to feel--in such an agony of faith had hebeen minded there to kneel. But he did not kneel at all. He remarkedto himself that the place was inordinately close, that his contiguityto his religious neighbours was disagreeable; and then, stooping lowhis head, not in reverence, but with a view to backing himself outfrom the small enclosure, with some delay and much precaution, and,to speak truth, with various expressions of anger against those whowith their heads continued to push him the way he did not wish to go,he retreated from the chapel. Nor while he was at Jerusalem did hefeel sufficient interest in the matter again to enter it. He had donethat deed, he had killed that lion, and, ticking it off from his listof celebrities as one celebrity disposed of, he thought but littlemore about it. Such, we believe, are the visits of most EnglishChristians to the so-called Holy Sepulchre.

  And then he killed the other lions there: Calvary up in the gallery;the garden, so called, in which the risen Saviour addressed the womenrunning from the sepulchre; the place where Peter's cock crew; thetomb of Nicodemus--all within the same church, all under the oneroof--all at least under what should be a roof, only now it hasfallen into ruin, so that these sacred places are open to the rainof heaven, and Greeks and Latins having quarrelled about the repairs,the Turks, now lords of the Holy Sepulchre, have taken the matterinto their own hands, and declared that no repairs shall be done byany of them.

  And then he attended the Greek mass--at least, he partly believedthat he did so, somewhat doubting, for the mass was not said as arethose of the Romans, out at an open altar before the people, but ina holy of holies; very holy, it may be imagined, from the mannerin which the worshippers rubbed their foreheads against certaingratings, through which a tantalizing glimpse might be had of thefine things that were going on within. Had they but known it, itmight all have been seen, holy of holies, head-wagging priest, idleyawning assistant, with legs stretched out, half asleep, mumblement,jumblement and all, from a little back window in a passage openingfrom that Calvary gallery upstairs. From thence at least did theseprofane eyes look down and see all the mumblement and jumblement,which after all was little enough; but saw especially the idleclerical apprentice who, had that screen been down, and had he beencalled on to do his altar work before the public eye, would not havebeen so nearly asleep, as may perhaps be said of other clericalperformers nearer home.

  But Bertram's attention was mainly occupied with watching thedevotions of a single woman. She was a female of one of those strangenations, decently clad, about thirty years of age, pleasant to theeye were she not so dirty, and had she not that wild look, half waybetween the sallow sublime and the dangerously murderous, which seemscommon to oriental Christians, whether men or women. Heaven mightknow of what sins she came there to leave the burden: heaven didknow, doubtless; but from the length of her manoeuvres in quittingherself of their weight, one would say that they were heavy; and yetshe went through her task with composed dignity, with an alacritythat was almost joyous, and certainly with no intentionalself-abasement.

  Entering the church with a quick step, she took up a position asthough she had selected a special stone on which to stand. There,with head erect, but bowing between each ceremony, she crossedherself three times; then sinking on her knees, thrice she pressedher forehead to the floor; then rising again, again she crossedherself. Having so done somewhat to the right of the church, but nearthe altar-screen, she did the same on the corresponding stone towardsthe left, and then again the same on a stone behind the others, butin the centre. After this she retreated further back, and did threemore such worshippings, always choosing her stone with an eye toarchitectural regularity; then again, getting to the backward, shedid three more, thus completing her appointed task, having crossedherself thirty-six times, and pressed her head with twenty-sevenpressures upon the floor. And so, having finished, she quicklywithdrew. Did any slightest prayer, any idea of praying, any thoughtof a God giving grace and pardon if only asked to give, once enterthat bowing bosom?

  "Why do those Turks sit there?" said Bertram, as he left thebuilding. Why, indeed? It was strange to see five or six statelyTurks, strict children of the Prophet doubtless, sitting there withinthe door of this temple dedicated to the Nazarene God, sitting thereand looking as though they of all men had the most right so to sit,and were most at home in so sitting; nay, they had a divan there,were drinking coffee there out of little double cups, as is themanner of these people; were not smoking, certainly, as is theirmanner also in all other places.

  "Dem guard de keys," said the dragoman.

  "Guard the keys!"

  "Yes, yes; open de lock, and not let de Christian fight."

  So it is. In such manner is proper, fitting, peaceable conductmaintained within the thrice Christian walls of the Church of theHoly Sepulchre.

  On his return to the hotel, Bertram accepted an invitation to joinMiss Todd's picnic in the Valley of Jehoshaphat, and then towardsevening strolled up alone on to the Mount of Olives.