the old men of the village sat opposite to us in a half circle, while the young men were standing round, or resting on the heaps of wheat near.
We were not quite a mile from the shore, and were facing the sea and the setting sun. A long line of coast was in sight. The rocky islands and ruins of Tantûra—the ancient Dora—could be plainly seen, a little way to the south, and the tall tower of Athlite, or Castelum Pelegrinum, appeared far away in the north.
At the moment when the sun dropped down into the sea, the village priest rose, and stood in the middle of a large, smooth, and well-swept thrashing-floor, which was close by. He looked earnestly and solemnly toward the south, and sang, in a loud and sonorous voice, the call to evening prayer. There was no minaret or mosque in the village. The sheikh, and the elders who had gathered round us, immediately rose and assembled on the thrashing-floor, in a double row behind the priest, who thus looked truly like the leader of the little band. They echoed his words, and followed all his movements with precision, kneeling and bowing their faces to the ground, and uplifting their hands and rising to their feet with one accord. They were joined by the laborers from the other thrashing-floors and by our Moslem servants, but the younger men who had been talking with us hesitated at first to attend to the call to prayer. They looked at each other as if undecided what to do, and then at us, as if they were ashamed. We tried, by keeping perfectly still and silent, to make them understand that we did not expect or wish them to neglect their devotions on our account. Suddenly they rose altogether and ranged themselves in a row on the border of the thrashing-floor, and their strong voices blended with the voices of their fathers as they cried, "There is no God but God, and Mohammed is his Prophet."
No women came forward to pray, but I saw some standing afar off watching the assembly. The prayers occupied rather more than a quarter of an hour. I had never seen
