The Shammar Bedouins give their horses, particularly when young, large quantities of camels' milk. I have heard of mares eating raw flesh, and dates are frequently mixed with their food by the tribes living near the mouth of the Euphrates. The Shammar and Aneyza shoe their horses if possible, and wandering farriers regularly visit their tents. The Arab horse has but two ordinary paces, a quick and easy walk, sometimes averaging between four and five miles an hour, and a half running canter. The Bedouin rarely puts his mare to full speed unless pursued or pursuing. In the evening, as I was seated before my tent, I observed a large party of horsemen and riders on delouls approaching our encampment. They stopped at the entrance of the large pavilion reserved for guests, and picketing their mares, and turning loose their dromedaries adorned with gay trappings, seated themselves on the carpets. The chiefs were our old friends, Mohammed Emin and Ferhan, the great Shammar Sheikh. We cordially embraced after the Bedouin fashion. I had not seen Ferhan since the treacherous murder of his father by Nejib Pasha of Baghdad[136], to which he alluded with touching expressions of grief, bewailing his own incompetency to fill Sofuk's place, and to govern the divided tribe. He was now on his way with the Jebour Sheikh to recover, if possible, the government treasure, plundered by the Hamoud, for which, as head of the Shammar, he was held responsible by the Porte. After they had eaten of the feast we were able to prepare for them, they departed about sunset for the tents of the Jebours. I embraced Mohammed Emin for the last time, and saw him no more during my residence in Assyria. On the 4th of May we made a short day's journey of five hours to a beautiful stream issuing from the Sinjar hill, beneath the village of Khersa or Chersa. A Bedouin of the Boraij tribe accompanied us riding on a swift white dromedary of a true Nedjid breed. This animal was scarcely taller than a large English horse. Leaving the plain, which was speckled as far as the eye could reach with the flocks and tents of the Bedouins, we skirted the very foot of the Sinjar. Khersa had been deserted by its inhabitants, who had rebuilt their village higher up on the side of the hill. Since the loss of Hattab, Suttum had never ceased pining for a falcon worthy to take his place. He had been counting the hours of his visit to this part of the Sinjar, known only to yield to the borders of the Persian Gulf in producing the finest and bravest hawks for the chase. He was not successful, however, in pleasing himself with those which were offered to him.