How mysterious the pageant, stretching its long train over the barren and trackless sands. The camels, with stealthy step, waving their long necks slowly and majestically; now and then the Arabian coursers neighing in wearied restlessness, break the silence. Then a voice chanting a hymn of praise, and anon, a shout or chorus from the multitude. Now all is still, and fitful shadows glide along side by side with the wanderers, as the bright jewels on the camels glisten in the torch-light. The caravan has passed, leaving in its track many palpitating forms, panting on the sands for that breath of life, which is rapidly exhaling from their bodies. So weary a way--sometimes no water to quench the thirst, which rages in proportion to the scarcity of its antidote; fatigue adding its prostrating effects day by day, no wonder that many of the way-worn pilgrims are transferred to the Heavenly Temple, without a sight of the earthly. The caravan from Cairo is also moving onwards, made up of a motley multitude, headed by the Emir Hadgee, who is appointed by the pasha of Cairo, and receives great emoluments from his office. Every pilgrim pays him a certain sum for the enregistering of his name and property, and the possessions of all those who die on the road, are also his perquisites. He is the governor of the pilgrimage, and is judge and jury in all matters of dispute. The Egyptians always carry with them the tomb of Hassan, and accompanied by cavalry and artillery, they proceed as far as Redowa, near Medina, where they are to meet the Constantinople caravan. About two days' journey from Cairo, they arrive at a place called Miz-Haara, the ancient Marah of the Israelites, where, when the people murmured at the bitterness of the waters, Moses cast a tree into them, and they became sweet, of surpassing sweetness to all thirsty pilgrims. Thus they travel over the same wilderness as their ancient predecessors, encamping in the very spots selected by Moses for the tents of the chosen people of God. After these caravans meet, they proceed, a vast multitude, to a village about sixty miles from Mecca, where is Abram's mountain, on which he erected the altar to sacrifice his son. On the top of this hill is a mosque, where an old sheikh resides, who, as the pilgrims halt, stands on the brow of the hill, and delivers an address to them on the importance of the duty they are performing, reminding them also of the blessings in store for all zealous Mussulmans. To what an immense audience does this lonely old man once a year proclaim the tenets of the Koran, and how eagerly do their thirsty souls quaff the water of everlasting life as he dispenses it.