On the 15th of November Bruce left Arkeeko, and, after crossing a small plain, pitched his tent near a shallow pit of rain-water. Before him were the mountains of Abyssinia, in three distinct ridges. The first broken into gullies, and thinly covered with shrubs; the second higher, steeper, more rugged and bare; and the third a range of sharp-pointed mountains, which would be considered high in any part of Europe. Far above them all towered that stupendous mass, the Mountain of Tarenta, the apex of which is sometimes buried in the clouds; while at other times, enveloped in mist and darkness, it becomes the seat of lightning, thunder, and storm. Tarenta is the highest pinnacle of that long, steep chain of mountains which, running parallel to the Red Sea, forms the boundary of the seasons. On its east side, or towards the Red Sea, the rainy season is from October to April; while on the western or Abyssinian side, cloudy, cold, and rainy weather reigns from May till October. While Bruce was in his tent he was visited by his grateful friend and patient, Achmet, who told him not to go to Dobarwa, for, although it was a good road, the safest was always the best. "You will be apt to curse me," he added, "when you are toiling and sweating in ascending Tarenta, the highest mountain in Abyssinia; but you may then consider if the fatigue of your body is not overpaid by the absolute safety you will find yourselves in. Dobarwa belongs to the naybe, and I cannot answer for the orders he may have given to his own servants; but Dixan is mine, although the people are much worse than those of Dobarwa. I have written to my officers there; and as you are strong and robust, the best I can do for you is to send you by a rugged road and a safe one." Achmet, Bruce, and his party then rose with solemnity, and repeating the fedtah, or prayer of peace, they parted never to meet again. "Thus finished," says Bruce, in the narrative of his travels, "a series of trouble and vexation, not to say danger, superior to anything I ever before had experienced, and of which the bare recital (though perhaps a too minute one) will give but an imperfect idea. These wretches possess talents for tormenting and alarming far beyond the power of belief; and, by laying a true sketch of them before a traveller, an author does him the most real service." "In this country," Bruce most justly adds, "the more truly we draw the portrait of man, the more we seem to fall into caricature."