It was two P.M. when we mounted our horses for Cæsarea. Reapers were thrusting the sickle into the ripe barley, and maidens were gleaning after them, as we rode over the Plain of Sebaste. Soon we turned westward and again entered the Valley of Nablous, here known as Wady Sh’aîr, “The Valley of Barley.” Through its centre flows a brook, which increases in width and rapidity as it approaches the sea. Following the northern bank of the stream, we passed, at intervals of several hundred yards, Roman aqueducts, near which are mills driven by water power. Reaching the small hamlet of ’Anebta, the road to Cæsarea branches, one continuing down the valley to the Plain of Sharon, while the other, striking across the barren ridges of Wady Mussîn, enters the plain by the village of Bâkah. Choosing the latter, we traversed a barren and cheerless region. Night came on apace as we neared the large and flourishing town of Shuweikeh, situated on a lofty hill. Passing the village of Kakôn, we mistook Zeita for the town of Bâkah. Riding through its silent streets, we learned from a peasant that the place of our night’s encampment was still to the westward. Regaining the road, we lingered for a moment to examine the remarkable Hill of Zît, marking the eastern border of the Plain of Sharon. Its sides are scarped and regular, and its summit is level; around its base are hewn stones and fragments of columns belonging to some unknown city. It was here we had a despicable instance of the military tyranny of the Turks. One of our soldiers rode into a field and cut down grain enough to feed his horse that night, while the owner, who was a poor man, besought him, in the most respectful manner, to spare his grain, as it was all his property. But neither age, prayers, nor poverty touched the heart of that military ruffian. Anxious, hungry, and weary, we pitched our tents, at eight P.M., in the environs of Bâkah, a small straggling town on one of the richest plains in the world. The mules unloaded, the horses tethered, supper over, prayers offered, my companions asleep, I walked out upon the magnificent Plain of Sharon. A dreamy haze, like gossamer gauze, veiled the skies of night, through which moon and stars softly peered. A scene so lovely recalled the tender strain of one of our finest poets: “Oh! sweet and beautiful night, When the silver moon is high, And countless stars, like clustering gems, Hang sparkling in the sky: While the breath of the summer breeze Comes whispering down the glen, And one fond voice alone is heard―― Oh, night is lovely then.” The horse and his rider lay side by side, and the watch-fires, burning dimly, shed a livid glare upon the sleepers. The moon, growing brighter as she ascended, silvered each spear of grass and blade of corn, while far away to the east, amid the mountain glens of Samaria,