Three hours afterwards, there stole upon one quarter of the horizon a lurid gleam--the herald of the coming day; then the bugles struck up a Scottish quick-step--the silence was broken, and the men began to talk cheerily, and 'chaff' each other, though already enduring that parched sensation in the mouth, peculiar to all who traverse the deserts that border on the Nile--a parched feeling for which liquor, curious to say, is almost useless, and often increases the torture--and all, particularly the marching infantry, in defiance of orders, drank from their water-bottles surreptitiously, even when it was announced that seventy more miles had to be covered ere a proper supply could be obtained from wells. Those at Hamboka, forty-seven miles from Korti, were found full of dry sand--destroyed by the horsemen of the Sheikh Moussa Abu Hagil, who was in that quarter; those at El Howieyat, eight miles further on, were in nearly the same condition, and already the soldiers were becoming maddened by thirst. Day had passed, and again the weary march was resumed in the dark. At the well of Abu Haifa, eighty miles from Korti, the scene that ensued was exciting and painful--even terrible. The orders were that the fighting men were to be first supplied; and, held back by the bayonet's point, the wretched camp-followers, Somali camel-drivers, and others frantically tore up the warm sand with their hands in the hope that a little water might collect therein, and when it did so, they stooped and lapped it up like thirsty cats or dogs. Others failed to achieve this, and with their mouths cracked, their entrails shrivelled, their flashing eyes wild and hollow, they rolled about with frenzy at their hearts, and blasphemy on their lips. There was no reasoning with them--they could no longer reason. Even the resolute British soldier could scarcely be restrained by habitual discipline from throwing the latter aside, and joining in the throng that surged around the so-called well--a mere stony hole in the desert sand--while in the background were maddened horses, and even the ever-patient camels, plunging, struggling, unmanageable, and fighting desperately with their masters for a drop of that precious liquid. In the struggle here Malcolm Skene, as an officer, got his water-bottle filled among the earliest, having ridden forward, and with a sigh that was somewhat of a prayer he was about to take a deep draught therefrom, when the wan face, the haggard eyes, and parched lips of a young soldier of the 2nd Sussex caught his eye. Too weak to struggle, perhaps too well-bred, if breeding could be remembered in that hour of madness, or so despairing as to be careless, he had made no effort to procure water, or if he did so, had failed. Skene's heart smote him. 'Drink, my man,' said he, proffering his water-bottle, 'and then I shall.' 'Oh, may God bless you, sir,' murmured the poor infantry lad fervently, as he drank, and returned the bottle with a salute.