In the evening I took my gun, and, accompanied by the End of Time, went out to search for venison: the plain, however, was full of men and cattle, and its hidden denizens had migrated. During our walk we visited the tomb of an Eesa brave. It was about ten feet long, heaped up with granite pebbles, bits of black basalt, and stones of calcareous lime: two upright slabs denoted the position of the head and feet, and upon these hung the deceased's milk-pails, much the worse for sun and wind. Round the grave was a thin fence of thorns: opposite the single narrow entrance, were three blocks of stone planted in line, and showing the number of enemies slain by the brave. [23] Beyond these trophies, a thorn roofing, supported by four bare poles, served to shade the relatives, when they meet to sit, feast, weep, and pray. The Bedouin funerals and tombs are equally simple. They have no favourite cemeteries as in Sindh and other Moslem and pastoral lands: men are buried where they die, and the rarity of the graves scattered about the country excited my astonishment. The corpse is soon interred. These people, like most barbarians, have a horror of death and all that reminds them of it: on several occasions I have been begged to throw away a hut-stick, that had been used to dig a grave. The bier is a rude framework of poles bound with ropes of hide. Some tie up the body and plant it in a sitting posture, to save themselves the trouble of excavating deep: this perhaps may account for the circular tombs seen in many parts of the country. Usually the corpse is thrust into a long hole, covered with wood and matting, and heaped over with earth and thorns, half-protected by an oval mass of loose stones, and abandoned to the jackals and hyenas.