To him that view meant "home, sweet home." His song was all about his village and how he loved it--what a pearl it was--how sweeter than all cities.
"'Ark at 'im!" The driver stopped the car to fill his pipe.
"You'd think 'e lived in 'eaven! I've fought over every hinch o' this perishin' country, an' tyke it from me, guv'nor, there ain't a village in it but what's composed of 'ovels wi' thatched roofs, an' 'eaps o' dung so you can't walk between 'em! Any one as wants my share o' Palestine can 'ave it!" We bumped on again down a road so lonely that it would have felt good to see a wild beast, or an armed man lurking in wait for us.
But the British had accomplished the impossible: They had so laid the fear of law along those roads that, though there might be murders to the right and left of them, the passer-by who kept to the road was safe, for the first time since the Romans now and then imposed a temporary peace.
At last, like two yellow streams glistening in moonlight, the road forked--one way toward Jericho.

The other way appeared to run more or less parallel with the Dead Sea.

At that point the one-eyed Arab left off singing at last and clutched the driver's shoulder.
"All right! All right!" he answered impatiently, and stopped.
"Out you get, then!" He did not expect the tip I gave him.

He seemed to think it placed him under obligation to wait there and talk for a few minutes.

But my one-eyed guide waved him away disgustedly with the hand that did not hold my bag, and we stood in the road watching until he vanished up-hill out of sight.