The Lands of the Saracen | Page 7

going on, the guardiano of our room came in very
mysteriously, and beckoned to my companion, saying that
"Mademoiselle was at the gate." But it was the Italian who was wanted,
and again, from the little window of our pavilion, we watched his
hurried progress over the lawn. No sooner had she departed, than he
took his pocket telescope, slowly sweeping the circuit of the bay as she

drew nearer and nearer Beyrout. He has succeeded in distinguishing,
among the mass of buildings, the top of the house in which she lives,
but alas! it is one story too low, and his patient espial has only been
rewarded by the sight of some cats promenading on the roof.
I have succeeded in obtaining some further particulars in relation to
Quarantine. On the night of our arrival, as we were about getting into
our beds, a sudden and horrible gush of brimstone vapor came up stairs,
and we all fell to coughing like patients in a pulmonary hospital. The
odor increased till we were obliged to open the windows and sit beside
them in order to breathe comfortably. This was the preparatory
fumigation, in order to remove the ranker seeds of plague, after which
the milder symptoms will of themselves vanish in the pure air of the
place. Several times a day we are stunned and overwhelmed with the
cracked brays of three discordant trumpets, as grating and doleful as the
last gasps of a dying donkey. At first I supposed the object of this was
to give a greater agitation to the air, and separate and shake down the
noxious exhalations we emit; but since I was informed that the soldiers
outside would shoot us in case we attempted to escape, I have
concluded that the sound is meant to alarm us, and prevent our
approaching too near the walls. On inquiring of our guardiano whether
the wheat growing within the grounds was subject to Quarantine, he
informed me that it did not ecovey infection, and that three old geese,
who walked out past the guard with impunity, were free to go and come,
as they had never been known to have the plague. Yesterday evening
the medical attendant, a Polish physician, came in to inspect us, but he
made a very hasty review, looking down on us from the top of a high
horse.
_Monday, April_ 19.
Eureka! the whole thing is explained. Talking to day with the guardiano,
he happened to mention that he had been three years in Quarantine,
keeping watch over infected travellers. "What!" said I, "you have been
sick three years." "Oh no," he replied; "I have never been sick at all."
"But are not people sick in Quarantine?" "_Stafferillah!_" he exclaimed;
"they are always in better health than the people outside." "What is

Quarantine for, then?" I persisted. "What is it for?" he repeated, with a
pause of blank amazement at my ignorance, "why, to get money from
the travellers!" Indiscreet guardiano! It were better to suppose
ourselves under suspicion of the plague, than to have such an
explanation of the mystery. Yet, in spite of the unpalatable knowledge,
I almost regret that this is our last day in the establishment. The air is so
pure and bracing, the views from our windows so magnificent, the
colonized branch of the Beyrout Hotel so comfortable, that I am
content to enjoy this pleasant idleness--the more pleasant since, being
involuntary, it is no weight on the conscience. I look up to the Maronite
villages, perched on the slopes of Lebanon, with scarce a wish to climb
to them, or turning to the sparkling Mediterranean, view
"The speronara's sail of snowy hue Whitening and brightening on that
field of blue,"
and have none of that unrest which the sight of a vessel in motion
suggests.
To-day my friend from Timbuctoo came up to have another talk. He
was curious to know the object of my travels, and as he would not have
comprehended the exact truth, I was obliged to convey it to him
through the medium of fiction. I informed him that I had been
dispatched by the Sultan of my country to obtain information of the
countries of Africa; that I wrote in a book accounts of everything I saw,
and on my return, would present this book to the Sultan, who would
reward me with a high rank--perhaps even that of Grand Vizier. The
Orientals deal largely in hyperbole, and scatter numbers and values
with the most reckless profusion. The Arabic, like the Hebrew, its sister
tongue, and other old original tongues of Man, is a language of roots,
and abounds with the boldest metaphors. Now, exaggeration is but the
imperfect form of metaphor. The expression is always a splendid
amplification of the simple fact. Like