It passed at last, but it was another hour ere we thought it was worth going on. Nine miles was all we made that day, and some of the dunes must have been over one hundred and twenty feet high. The camels were showing clearly their weariness and lack of water, as they swayed along slowly, with lack-lustre eyes, dragging gait, and heavy breathing through distended nostrils. That night again we had to give them some more of our precious water, and it became clear that, unless we could get some definite proof of hills in front within the next thirty-six hours there could be no question of going on. “Perhaps we shall get a fine day to-morrow,” said the ever-optimistic Wrexham. “I want to see the snow the diary talks about.” “If ever I see snow or water again, I shall go and lie in them and refuse to move again till all the sand I’ve absorbed these last forty-eight hours is washed right out of my system,” snorted Forsyth, bathing his sore eyes in half a teacupful of water. “Well, I hope you’ll see some to-morrow, though it will be a bit far off for bathing. It’s still absolutely hidden by sand to-night.” Next day the wind had dropped, though a heavy dust haze still hung in the air. Like the previous day, the dunes were great high slopes, anything from eighty to one hundred feet. But the cessation of the wind made going easier, and the thinning atmosphere made us hopeful of a glimpse of the promised hills. By the midday halt the sky was pretty clear all round, save in the one direction we wanted to see, and there, instead of our hills, was a heavy bank of cloud. Wrexham and I sat down despondently on the high dune up which we had climbed while Payindah was getting out some food, and looked out with our glasses at the distant clouds. We scanned each little bit of the bank, seeking in vain for the white glint of snow. Suddenly Wrexham gripped my shoulder. “Look there, Harry! Just in the middle of that dark bit like a camel’s hump. Isn’t that something white?” “Which one?” He pointed, but I couldn’t make out anything. Then he laid the telescope on it and bade me look. I looked through the glass, and there, sure enough, just below the dark cloud showed a faint whiteness that might be cloud or might be--could it be?--the longed-for snow. The cloud-bank was slowly changing in shape from moment to moment. The big dark cloud that Wrexham had indicated was slowly moving to one side. But the white patch seemed not to shift. Then for a fleeting instant it showed clear, a sharp point of blue-veined white that could be no cloud. “I think you’re right, John,” I said as I sat up. “Look!” He glued his eye to the telescope, gave a whoop, hurriedly fished out his compass, and laid it on the line of the telescope. “See,” he said, “bearing of fifty-six degrees. We’re not far out, old man, and if that’s not snow, then I’ve never seen it.” We shouted at the top of our voices to Forsyth below, “Snow! _Snow!_ SNOW!”