“However many places there may be in the world,” pronounced ’Abdullah, “there is none where the bread is so good.” “It is sweet,” assented Jûsef. “And if you take tobacco from Môṣul to Baghdâd,” ’Abdullah pursued, “it rots there. The air of Baghdâd is not like the air of Môṣul.” “Wallah, no!” said Jûsef the much-travelled, weighing city against city in the finest judicial manner. We rode through exquisite meadows, and in about five hours and a half from Ḳaraḳôsh crossed a mountain stream that rippled between banks rosy with oleander--Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed in robes so softly flushed. Beyond it my camp was pitched upon a swelling slope below the steep rocks of Jebel Maḳlûb, wherein, placed high among the hills, stood the monastery of Mâr Mattai, a grey wall hanging over a precipice. I left my horse at the camp, and taking ’Abdullah with me, set out on a half-hour’s climb up a narrow gorge, full of the western sun, which was golden now, and clement. Every crevice between the stones was gay with a small starry campanula, gentian-blue, mountain-blue, the full clear colour of an upland flower; and thrusting their strong roots under the rocks, the terebinths hung glossy foliage over the path--I found myself, as I looked once more upon the divine curves of leafy twig and bough, heaping contempt upon the recollection of that leggy vegetable, the palm. A ragged boy opened the monastery gate and conducted us by a long stair to a terrace from which the bishop had watched our progress up the gorge. He bade me go quickly, while the sun still shone, to see the church and the tombs of Mâr Mattai and of Bar Hebræus, but the church had been rebuilt, the inscriptions on the tombs were already known, and my desire turned towards the bishop, and the coffee which he was preparing for us, and the room on the terrace where the cushioned windows opened on to the Assyrian plain. The bishop was old and very garrulous; the monastery, high set above the world, was beyond the reach of mundane intelligence, the only monk had gone down to Môṣul, and in the Jebel Maḳlûb men were still uncertain under which lord they served. Was it indeed true, asked the bishop, that Muḥammad Reshâd was Sultan of Turkey? and he rejoiced greatly when we confirmed the rumour. But his thoughts wandered back to older histories, and hearing that we had come from Mâr Behnâm, he began to instruct us in matters pertaining to that shrine.