It was no better than a goat-path. We at last arrived at Diman, the
summer residence of the Patriarch, a conventual yet fortress-like
building on an eminence commanding a view of the whole of his
jurisdiction. We were charmed with the reception which his Beatitude
gave us. We were received by two bishops and endless retainers. The
Patriarch, dressed in purple, sat in a long, narrow room like a covered
terrace. We of the Faith knelt and kissed his hands, and the others
bowed low. His Beatitude seemed delighted with Richard, and at dinner
he sat at the head of the table, with me on his right and Richard on
his left. We then went to see the chapel and the monks, and the view
from the terrace, where we had coffee. His Beatitude gave me a number
of pious things, amongst others a bit of the true Cross, which I still
wear.
After we left the Patriarch's we found a dreadful road. Our horses
had literally to jump from one bit of rock to another. It consisted
of nothing but _debris_ of rocks. The horses were dead-beat long before
we had done our day's work, and we had to struggle forward on foot.
Night found us still scrambling in the dark, worn out with fatigue
and heat. I felt unable to go another step. At last, about nine
o'clock, we saw a light, and we hoped it was our camp. We had yet
some distance to go, and when we reached the light we found a wretched
village of a few huts. It was so dark that we could not find our way
into the shedlike dwellings.
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