against us some day.' 'He shan't die,' said Smith, 'I've sworn that he shan't, and I know I can trust my life in his hands.' So as nothing could be done they both went back to the fire, with no love lost between them. Oliver was still warming himself, and he sung out as they came back, 'Well, have you put any snares down yet?' 'Oh, there are snares enough about,' said Smith, 'if you did but know where to find 'em.' Then he tried to tell the boy what Flickers had wanted to do, but he couldn't just then. Flickers being nigh at hand; so he dropped into a nap after awhile, the axe lying by his side. But he had not been long asleep when he heard Oliver cry out, and jumped up and saw the boy lying on his back, with a deep gash on his forehead, and the blood streaming from it; Flickers a-standing over him, with the axe in his hand. 'Why you murdering rascal, what are you at?' he cries. But Flickers was like a madman, and didn't care what was said; and so he went on, hitting blow after blow, until the poor lad only moved and moaned, and then was quite still.
"They served Oliver just as they'd served the others, and for a little time still stood out till a day or two after, when they made for a station, and gave themselves up, quite worn out, and famished. You can guess, of course, what became of 'em, specially as Smith confessed everything to the chaplain. They both swung."
To this horrible story succeeded others quite as horrible, and at last Brown brought his conversation to an end. A few comments were passed by his companions, and then the whole party stretched themselves at full length by the fire, and sank into slumber, leaving me to such reflections as were likely to be inspired by the narratives I had heard, and by the knowledge that I and my companions were alone in the wilderness with three men, who might at any time feel tempted to plot some terrible deed, and stain their hands in blood.
SYRIAN LEGENDS.
NO. II.—THE GRAPES OF DARÂYA.
There is a certain grape sold in the bazaars of Damascus, called par excellence "ez-zeiney," or the beautiful. It is a white grape, large and long, very fragrant, sweet, and juicy, and with a particularly hard skin, which enables it to bear packing and carriage without injury. Of all the grapes grown in this district it is the favourite, and immense quantities are consumed by the people. It is cultivated in a village near Damascus, called Darâya, on the old Roman road south-west of the city, and there only, for though often planted elsewhere, it has always obstinately refused to thrive. The following is the legend of the origin of these grapes, as told by the Moslems of Damascus, and translated to me on the spot in October last, by my friend Mr. Rogers, our excellent Consul there.
Mohammad, the Prophet of God (whom may God bless and preserve), was accustomed to retire into the desert surrounding the city in which he dwelt, each day at the hour of afternoon prayer. On these occasions he would allow no one to accompany him, and much curiosity was in consequence felt by his followers as to the object of these mysterious disappearances. One of the most intimate of them (whose name is no longer known), more daring than the rest, was determined to discover the secret, and one afternoon he stealthily followed the Prophet out of the town. After going some distance into the desert, Mohammad said the afternoon prayers. When he had finished, the heavens opened, and a ladder was let down to the earth, up which he proceeded to climb. His friend followed close, and when the door of heaven was reached, he contrived, by hiding himself behind the skirts of the Prophet's dress, to enter with him unperceived. He found himself in the immediate presence of Allah. Allah was seated on a magnificent divan, in all the celestial splendours. He was evidently waiting for the arrival of Mohammad, whom He at once recognised, called him to His right hand at the corner of the sofa, and commanded Gabriel and the other attendants to bring coffee, pipes, sweetmeats, &c. Meantime the friend had been enabled, in the bustle of the entrance, to creep behind the divan, from whence he watched all that happened. After a time conversation flagged, and a game at chess was proposed. To this Mohammad—who was perfectly at his ease, and apparently well used to his company—would only assent on condition that the game should be for some stakes worth winning. It was at last settled that the stakes should be a banquet, to be furnished on the spot by the loser. The Prophet won the game, without difficulty, and the banquet at once appeared. One of its chief delicacies was a cluster of magnificent grapes, such as no mortal vine ever bore, or mortal eye beheld—immense in size, beautiful in form and colour, and of celestial fragrance. At the sight of the grapes the friend could resist no longer. He stole out of his hiding-place, and while the Prophet and his Host were busy with the feast, he contrived, by mingling with the attendants, to break off a portion of the bunch, which he hid in his bosom, and then darted off down the ladder. Once on the earth again, he waited quietly in the neighbourhood, and on the Prophet's reappearance congratulated him on having played his part so well. Mohammad was at first indignant, and professed not to understand his meaning, till the production of the grapes showed him that his follower had really witnessed all that had passed. He then bound him to secresy: "And as for the grapes," said he, "do not waste such precious fruit by eating it, but take it to Darâya, near Damascus, and there plant it, so that the earth may benefit by your visit to heaven." This his friend did. Now, all men know that the earth of the plain of Damascus is that out of which our first father Adam was created, and that in all the world there is not so fine or so productive a soil; but of all that plain Darâya is the richest. The grapes grow there to this day in great abundance, for though thousands and tens of thousands eat of them, there is never any lack. But the vines will flourish nowhere else, as many can affirm who have planted them elsewhere. And this is the story of the grapes of Darâya, which will grow nowhere but in their own soil. George Grove.
