At the time agreed, Hettall arrived with three camels and two guides, and we set out the 15th March, 1811, one year and twenty-eight days after our first departure from Aleppo. The tribe was at a place called Misarib, three days from Damascus. Nothing remarkable happened on the road. We passed the nights under a starry sky; and on the third day, by sunset, we were in the midst of the tents of Would Ali. The _coup d’œil_ was delightful. Every tent was surrounded by horses, camels, goats, and sheep, with the lance of the horseman planted at the entrance: that of the Emir Douhi arose in the centre. He received us with all possible consideration, and made us sup with him. He is a man of understanding, and is equally loved and feared by his people. He commands five thousand tents, and three tribes, which are joined to his; those of Benin Sakhrer, of El Serhaan, and El Sarddié. He had divided his soldiers into companies or divisions, each commanded by one of his kinsmen. The Bedouins are fond of hearing stories after supper. This is one that the emir told us: it depicts the extreme attachment they have for their horses, and the self-love they manifest with regard to their own qualities. One of his tribe, named Giabal, possessed a very celebrated mare. Hassad Pacha, then vizier of Damascus, made him on various occasions all sorts of offers to part with it, but in vain, for a Bedouin loves his horse as he does his wife. The pacha then employed threats, but with no better success. At length, another Bedouin, named Giafar, came to the pacha, and asked what he would give him if he brought him Giabal’s mare? “I will fill thy barley sack with gold,” replied Hassad, who felt indignant at his want of success. This took place without transpiring; and Giabal fastened his mare at night by the foot with an iron ring, the chain of which passed into his tent, being held by a picket fixed in the ground under the very felt which served him and his wife as a bed. At midnight, Giafar creeps into the tent on all-fours, and, insinuating himself between Giabal and his wife, gently pushes first the one, and then the other: the husband thought his wife was pushing, the wife thought the same of the husband; and each made more room. Giafar then, with a knife well sharpened, makes a slit in the felt, takes out the picket, unties the mare, mounts her, and, grasping Giabal’s lance, pricks him slightly with it, calling out, “It is I, Giafar, who have taken thy noble mare; I give thee early notice!” and off he goes. Giabal instantly darts from the tent, calls his friends, mounts his brother’s mare, and pursues Giafar for four hours. Giabal’s brother’s mare was of the same blood as his own, though not so good. Outstripping all the other horsemen, he was on the point of overtaking Giafar, when he cried out, “Pinch her right ear, and give her the stirrup.” Giafar did so, and flew like lightning. The pursuit was then useless: the distance between them was too great. The other