The sun was setting, and the shadow of the mountains darkened the plains when we resumed our journey. The lateness of the hour required dispatch, and Beeroth, the place where we were to spend the night, was six miles to the north. Unfortunately we were without a guide, and our path was simply a camel track, devious, stony, and uncertain. Though we knew the general direction of Beeroth, yet the number of small villages in the vicinity, the growing darkness, and the uncertainty of the road, baffled all effort to find the place. Overtaking an Arab belonging to Beit Untâh, he agreed for a present to serve us as guide. Not suspecting deception, we followed him nearly to his own town, which he assured us was the desired place. But knowing from our maps that Beeroth was to the right of the path, and Beit Untâh to the left, we refused to follow him farther. Truth is an unknown virtue in the Arab character, and he who confides in it leans upon a broken reed. For the paltry sum which a night’s lodging would bring, this man was leading us astray. A solitary light shone from a hut in Beeroth, when, turning eastward, we traversed plowed fields, leaped ditches, crossed ravines, and rued the day we had presumed to travel without a guide. Reaching a fountain, the waters of which sparkled in the starlight, we regained the path. Having a letter of introduction from Dr. Sandreczki, of Jerusalem, to one Yûsef Shang, a Christian Arab, and the scribe of the town, we inquired for him; but, to add to our mishaps, Yûsef was not at home. There we were, homeless, foodless, friendless, and in the dark. An old Arab dame, however (heaven pity her homeliness and reward her kindness!), knew where Yûsef was, and called him to our aid. Yûsef Shang was a noble specimen of the Arab race. He was of medium height, well built, of full habit, with towering brow, large black eyes, handsome nose, a large, joyous mouth, and a heavy, flowing beard, which was white as snow, and beautifully contrasted the deep olive hue of his manly face. His countenance was at once benignant and intelligent. Besides, Yûsef was a clean Arab――a rarity worth a pilgrimage to see. His red boots, light-colored petticoat-trowsers, embroidered jacket, broad girdle, flowing robes of yellow Broussa silk, and a bright checkered turban, were neat enough for a picture. In his silken girdle he wore a brass inkhorn, a foot in length, with a small square bulb of the same material on the side near the end, rendered perfectly tight by a thin plate of the same metal, and containing in the long part a case for the reed pens, which are secured by a brass cap. His appearance recalled Ezekiel’s description of the man clothed with linen, with a writer’s inkhorn by his side.[455]