The sea is still rough, the sun is hot, and a fat Jewess becomes sea-sick.
An Italian Jew rails at the boatmen ahead, in the Neapolitan patois, for
the distance is long, the Quarantine being on the land-side of Beyrout. We
see the rows of little yellow houses on the cliff, and with great apparent
risk of being swept upon the breakers, are tugged into a small cove, where
there is a landing-place. Nobody is there to receive us; the boatmen jump
into the water and push the lighters against the stone stairs, while we
unload our own baggage. A tin cup filled with sea-water is placed before
us, and we each drop six piastres into it--for money, strange as it may
seem, is infectious. By this time, the _guardianos_ have had notice of our
arrival, and we go up with them to choose our habitations. There are
several rows of one-story houses overlooking the sea, each containing two
empty rooms, to be had for a hundred piastres; but a square two-story
dwelling stands apart from them, and the whole of it may be had for thrice
that sum. There are seven Frank prisoners, and we take it for ourselves.
But the rooms are bare, the kitchen empty, and we learn the important
fact, that Quarantine is durance vile, without even the bread and water.
The guardiano says the agents of the hotel are at the gate, and we can
order from them whatever we want. Certainly; but at their own price, for
we are wholly at their mercy. However, we go down stairs, and the chief
officer, who accompanies us, gets into a corner as we pass, and holds a
stick before him to keep us off. He is now clean, but if his garments
brush against ours, he is lost. The people we meet in the grounds step
aside with great respect to let us pass, but if we offer them our hands,
no one would dare to touch a finger's tip.

Here is the gate: a double screen of wire, with an interval between, so
that contact is impossible. There is a crowd of individuals outside, all
anxious to execute commissions. Among them is the agent of the hotel, who