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Ten days after our return to Salahiyyeh we had a severe shock of earthquake. Richard and I were sitting in an inner room, when suddenly the divan began to see-saw under us, and the wardrobe opposite to bow down to us. Fortunately no harm was done; but it was an unpleasant sensation, like being at sea in a gale of wind.
When the day of the sale of our goods arrived, I could not bear to sit in the house; so I went up to the mountain behind, and gazed down on my Salahiyyeh in its sea of green, and my pearl-like Damascus and the desert sand, and watched the sunset on the mountains for the last time. My preparations for departure necessarily took some time.
Just beyond it was the desert sand, and in the background a saffron-hued mountain known as the Camomile Mountain; and camomile was the scent which pervaded our village and all Damascus. Our house was in the suburb of Salahiyyeh, and we had good air and light, beautiful views, fresh water, quiet, and above all liberty.
In five minutes we could gallop out over the mountains, and there we pitched our tent. I should like to describe our house at Salahiyyeh, once more, though I have described it before, and Frederick Leighton once drew a sketch of it, so that it is pretty well known.
At midnight we formed a procession to take the bride to her bridegroom's house, with singing, dancing, snapping of fingers, and loud cries of "Yallah! Yallah!" which lasted till 2 a.m. Then the harim proceeded to undress the bride. We were up all night, watching and joining in different branches of festivities. The wedding over, we returned home to Salahiyyeh by slow stages.
One who never turned his back, but marched breast forward; Never doubted clouds would break; Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph Held, we fall to rise again; are baffled, to fight better; Sleep, to wake! In October Richard and I left Bludan to return to our winter quarters at Salahiyyeh, Damascus.
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