On that afternoon the learned man had gone with the Commission of Excavations to the Tombs of the Kings. I went alone to the Mount of Olives, because nowhere else near Jerusalem was there a place of such pleasant shade in which to spend a fine afternoon lazily smoking. I went out by the Gate of St. Stephen, I trotted over the bridge across the Cedron, climbed the short cut between aloes to the low wall, the rustic whitewashed wall which encloses the Garden of Gethsemane. I pushed open the small green door freshly painted with its copper knocker and entered the orchard where Jesus knelt and groaned beneath the olive-trees. They are still alive, those sacred trees which soothingly swayed their branches above His world-weary head. There are eight of them, black decrepit trees propped up with wooden stakes, in dull forgetfulness of that night of Nizzam when the angels came silently flying to watch between their branches the human sorrows of the Son of God. In their hollow trunks are kept mattocks and pruning-hooks; on the tips of their branches a few fragile leaves of sapless green tremble and faint like the smiles of a dying man. Around them is a small garden well watered and carefully tended. In plots with privet hedges were planted rows of cool green lettuce; not a withered leaf spoils the immaculate neatness of the sand paths between; near the walls, in which in twelve niches gleam the twelve Apostles in porcelain, drills of onion and carrots are bordered with sweet-scented musk. Why was not there so fair a kitchen-garden here in the time of Jesus? Perhaps those useful vegetables in their placid orderliness might have calmed the torments of His heart.