Chapter 44

The next day was an outrage upon men and horses both. It was another
thirteen-hour stretch (including an hour's "nooning.") It was over the
barrenest chalk-hills and through the baldest canons that even Syria can
show. The heat quivered in the air every where. In the canons we almost
smothered in the baking atmosphere. On high ground, the reflection from
the chalk-hills was blinding. 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. It is the principal source of the Abana river
--only one-half mile down to where it joins. Beautiful
place--giant trees all around--so shady and cool, if one could keep
awake--vast stream gushes straight out from under the mountain in a
torrent. Over it is a very ancient ruin, with no known history
--supposed to have been for the worship of the deity of the fountain
or Baalam's ass or somebody. Wretched nest of human vermin about
the fountain--rags, dirt, sunken cheeks, pallor of sickness, sores,
projecting bones, dull, aching misery in their eyes and ravenous
hunger speaking from every eloquent fibre and muscle from head to
foot. How they sprang upon a bone, how they crunched the bread we
gave them! Such as these to swarm about one and watch every bite
he takes, with greedy looks, and swallow unconsciously every time
he swallows, as if they half fancied the precious morsel went down
their own throats--hurry up the caravan!--I never shall enjoy a
meal in this distressful country. To think of eating three times
every day under such circumstances for three weeks yet--it is worse
punishment than riding all day in the sun. There are sixteen
starving babies from one to six years old in the party, and their
legs are no larger than broom handles. Left the fountain at