Down the Lebanon slope and across the valley to Reyak, a Syrian village in the sand, at the foot of the Anti-Lebanon range. Reyak is the parting of the ways--the railways--that lead to Damascus and Baalbec, and there is a lunch-room there--a good one by Turkish standards. It was our first complete introduction to Turkish food--that is a diet of nuts, dates, oranges, and curious meat and vegetable preparations--and I ate a good deal for a dying man. Then I went outside to look at the population, and wonder what these people, who scratch a living out of the sand and stone barrens, would do in a fertile country like America. They would consider it heaven, I thought. At the end of the station sat a drowsy, stoutish man in semi-European dress, holding a few pairs of coarse home-knit socks, evidently for sale. I stopped and talked to him. He spoke English very well, and when he told me his story I marvelled. He had been in America; in Brooklyn; had carried on business there--something in Syrian merchandise--and had done very well. He had married there--a Syrian woman; his children were born there--Americans. Then one day he had sold out and brought them all to this flat-topped mud village in the Syrian sand. Why had he done it? Well, he could hardly tell; he had wanted to see Syria again--he could think of no other reason. No, his wife did not like it, nor the children--not at all. He pointed out his mud hut a little way from the station, and I could not blame them. He would go back some day--yes, certainly. Meantime, his wife is earning money for the trip by knitting the coarse socks which he sells around the station at Reyak at a few piastres a pair. Our train was about ready to start for Baalbec, and I was lingering over a little collection of relics which a blind pedler offered, when I felt a hand on my shoulder and heard my name called. I turned and was face to face with the artist Jules Gurin, of New York. I had known nothing of his presence in Syria, he had known nothing of our coming. He was going in one direction, I in another. In this remote waste our lines had crossed. He was so glad to see me--he thought I had a supply of cigars. I never saw a man's enthusiasm die so suddenly as his did when I told him how I had been sick that morning and forgotten them. Altogether that was a curious half hour. Reyak is the most uninteresting place in Syria, but I shall always remember it. FOOTNOTES: [5] One tradition places the Transfiguration on Mount Tabor, but Tabor is fifty miles away whereas Cesarea Philippi, to which the little group descended, lies at the foot of Hermon. XXIV THE HOUSE THAT CAIN BUILT