SYRIA, THE LAND OF LEBANON
When the door opened for us, we passed immediately from Syria to America and, under the influence of the warmth and refinement and hospitable cheer of the mud-walled room, our sentiments toward Ras Baalbek underwent a complete and permanent change. These quiet-speaking, refined ladies did not look at all like martyrs of the faith. It was hard to realize that they had immured themselves in the midst of a dirty, ignorant, fanatical community, and were living in circumstances of very real hardship and peril. In the street just outside, the dogs were yelping noisily. From a neighboring roof a stentorian voice called out what corresponded to the evening edition of a local newspaper. The village was informed that the robber-tribe of Beit Dendish was ravaging the valley, a prominent resident had been murdered the preceding night, and Abu somebody-or-other had lost one of his goats. In the bright, warm room, however, we talked of American friends and American books, and discussed the probable outcome of the Yale-Princeton game.
After supper we all went to the house of the native teacher for a little prayer meeting. He was a young married man with several children, but his housekeeping arrangements were very simple. There was but one room. The floor was of mud, the ceiling was mud and straw, the walls were mud and stone. In one corner was a big pile of mattresses and blankets; in another was a small pile of cooking utensils, and
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