The Land of Midian, vol 2 | Page 2

instinct. We then crossed a rough and rocky
divide, Arabicè a Majrá, or, as the Bedawin here pronounce it, a
"Magráh,"[EN#1] which takes its name from the tormented Ruways
ridge on the right. After a hot, unlively march of four hours (= eleven
miles), on mules worn out by want of water, we dismounted at a queer
isolated lump on the left of the track. This Jebel el-Murayt'bah ("of the
Little Step") is lumpy grey granite of the coarsest elements, whose false
strata, tilted up till they have become quasi-vertical, and worn down to
pillars and drums, crown the crest like gigantic columnar
crystallizations. We shall see the same freak of nature far more grandly
developed into the "Pins" of the Shárr. It has evidently upraised the trap,

of which large and small blocks are here and there imbedded in it. The
granite is cut in its turn by long horizontal dykes of the hardest
quadrangular basalt, occasionally pudding'd with banded lumps of red
jasper and oxydulated iron: from afar they look like water-lines, and in
places they form walls, regular as if built. The rounded forms result
from the granites flaking off in curved laminæ, like onion-coats. Want
of homogeneity in the texture causes the granite to degrade into caves
and holes: the huge blocks which have fallen from the upper heights
often show unexpected hollows in the under and lower sides. Above the
water we found an immense natural dolmen, under which apparently
the Bedawin take shelter. After El-Murayt'bah the regular granitic
sequence disappears, nor will it again be visible till we reach Shaghab
(March 2nd).
About noon we remounted and rounded the south of the block,
disturbing by vain shots two fine black eagles. I had reckoned upon the
"Water of El-Murayt'bah," in order to make an exceptional march after
so many days of deadly slow going. But the cry arose that the
rain-puddle was dry. We had not brought a sufficient supply with us,
and twenty-two miles to and from the Wady Dahal was a long way for
camels, to say nothing of their owners and the danger of prowling
Ma'ázah. In front water lay still farther off, according to the guides,
who, it will be seen, notably deceived us. So I ordered the camp to be
pitched, after reconnoitering the locale of the water; and we all
proceeded to work, with a detachment of soldiers and quarrymen. It
was not a rain-puddle, but a spring rising slowly in the sand, which had
filled up a fissure in the granite about four feet broad; of these crevices
three were disposed parallel to one another, and at different heights.
They wanted only clearing out; the produce was abundant, and though
slightly flavoured with iron and sulphur, it was drinkable. The thirsty
mules amused us not a little: they smelt water at once; hobbled as they
were, all hopped like kangaroos over the plain, and with long ears well
to the fore, they stood superintending the operation till it was their turn
to be happy.
Our evening at the foot of El-Ruways was cheered, despite the flies, the
earwigs, and the biting Ba'úzah beetle, which here first put in an
appearance, by the weird and fascinating aspect of the southern
Hismá-wall, standing opposite to us, and distant about a mile from the

dull drab-coloured basin, El-Majrá. Based upon mighty massive
foundations of brown and green trap, the undulating junction being
perfectly defined by a horizontal white line, the capping of sandstone
rises regular as if laid in courses, with a huge rampart falling
perpendicular upon the natural slope of its glacis. This bounding
curtain is called the Taur el-Shafah, the "inaccessible part of the
Lip-range." Further eastward the continuity of the coping has been
broken and weathered into the most remarkable castellations: you pass
mile after mile of cathedrals, domes, spires, minarets, and pinnacles; of
fortresses, dungeons, bulwarks, walls, and towers; of platforms,
buttresses, and flying buttresses. These Girágir (Jirájir), as the Bedawin
call them, change shape at every new point of view, and the eye never
wearies of their infinite variety. Nor are the tints less remarkable than
the forms. When the light of day warms them with its gorgeous glaze,
the buildings wear the brightest hues of red concrete, like a certain
house near Prince's Gate, set off by lambent lights of lively pink and
balas-ruby, and by shades of deep transparent purple, while here and
there a dwarf dome or a tumulus gleams sparkling white in the hot
sun-ray. The even-glow is indescribably lovely, and all the lovelier
because unlasting: the moment the red disc disappears, the glorious
rosy smile fades away, leaving the pale grey ghosts of their former
selves to gloom against the gloaming of the eastern sky. I could not
persuade M. Lacaze to