Shane Campbell was never weary of looking at the inscriptions on the great cliffs at the River of the Dog--the strange beauty of that name! It was like the place-names of native Ulster--_Athbo_, the Ford of Cows, _Sraidcuacha_, the Cuckoo's Lane--one name sounded to the other like tuning-forks. And the sweet strange harmony of it filled his heart, so that he could understand the irresistible charm of Lebanon--the high clear note like a bird's song. Here was the sun and the dreams of mighty things, and the palpable proximity of God. Here was beauty native, to be picked like a nugget, not to be mined for in bitter hours of torment and distress. High, clear, sustained, the note held. Arose the moon and the great stars like spangles. The slender acacias murmured. The pines _hush-hushed_. The _bronhaha_ of the cafes was like a considered counterpoint. Everywhere was harmony; beauty. And there would be no depression. It would last. There would be no ghosts. They were exorcised. For now there was Fenzile. How understandable everything was! It must have been under a moon like this, under these Syrian stars, to the _hush-hush-hush_ of the pine and the rustle of willow branches, that Solomon the king sang his love-song. And it must have been to one whose body was white as Fenzile's, to eyes as emerald, to velvety lips, to slim hands with orange-tinted finger nails that he sang. Surely the Shulamite was not fairer than the Fenzile, daughter of Hamadj, a Druse emir! How beautiful are thy feet with shoes, O prince's daughter! The joints of thy thighs are like jewels, The work of the hands of a cunning workman. Thy navel is like a round goblet, Which wanteth not liquor: Thy belly is like an heap of wheat set about with lilies. Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins. Thy neck is like a tower of ivory: Thine eyes like the fishpools in Heshbon, By the gate of Bath-rabbim: Thy nose is as the tower of Lebanon which looketh toward Damascus. Thine head upon thee is like Carmel, And the hair of thine head like purple; The king is held in the galleries. How fair and pleasant art thou, O love, for delights! This thy stature is like to a palm tree. And thy breasts to clusters of grapes. I said, I will go up to the palm tree. I will take hold of the boughs thereof: Now also thy breasts shall be as clusters of the vine, And the smell of thy nose like apples; And the roof of thy mouth like the best wine for my beloved, That goeth down sweetly, Causing the lips of those that are asleep to speak.... Section 9