ABSTRACT
WHEN Daoud Izzedin said to my wife and me, as the Mountain of the Druses began to loom in the far distance across the Hauran plains, “We shall probably sleep to-morrow night in the castle of Sultan Pasha Atrash at Kurieh,” it seemed as queer as if he had said, “We're week-ending with the Prophet Mohammed,” or “We'll be dropping in for luncheon with Saladin.”
