After a short wait we move off. Two to three hours steady plodding through the darkness, with the effects of fatigue scarcely noticeable. Then, suddenly, an utter weariness assails us, numbing limbs, distorting vision, and rendering minds a prey to tantalizing and disturbing thoughts—thoughts that mock and taunt; thoughts of feather beds and roaring fires; thoughts that accentuate our weariness and awake us to the realization of the cold. We ride, with drooping eyelids, a swaying body, and a precarious seat, surrendered to the inevitable. The column halts, and simultaneously we fall forward on our horses’ necks, hoping to ease our aching limbs. Hoping against hope to hear the order to dismount. A jerk, our horses move forward again, and disappointedly we resign ourselves to the further delusions of minds tortured from want of sleep. Visions become distorted, we visualize the objects of our thoughts. A thought of water, and the road becomes a flowing stream. Thoughts of horses and trees, and in the darkness arises a village—a village that remains ever in the distance, and endures only so long as our thoughts are of villages. The horse ahead moves strangely; it appears to be dancing, and has taken unto itself the shape of a beast of prehistoric ages. By an effort of will we shake off this state of semi-somnolence, and, for a time, see things in their normal shapes again. At last, the order to dismount. Tumbling off we throw ourselves down at our horses’ feet, indifferent to our position and its possibilities. With heads pillowed on arms, water-bottles or haversacks, we endeavour to win a few minutes respite. Follows sleep and blissful unconsciousness, until friendly hands awake us, and wearily we rise to a repetition of the last hour. On moving off some walk and lead their horses, stepping out briskly in an endeavour to dispel the ever-increasing drowsiness. It succeeds whilst walking, but a reaction sets in on regaining the saddle, leaving the walker in worse plight than ever. With nerves on edge, we curse the numerous and apparently purposeless halts, become uncomplimentary about our leaders, revile horses for jogging and stumbling, warn companions of the damage they are likely to do if they persist in being careless with their rifles. Cheerful and good-tempered soldiers are few at 03.00. And so on until we hail with relief the approach of dawn, which dispels the hallucinations of darkness. “ARAM.” [Illustration: ROMAN FORT, JERICHO ] [Illustration: HORSES UNDER COVER A. L. HORSE IN CAMP 2nd A. L. H. MARCHING THROUGH KHAN YUNIS ] A Gloomy Outlook