And to look upon the flooded land and think that only some hours before we had dug in the river-bed, and dug in vain, in search of good water; that was almost like a far-off dream. In the dusk, when enough firewood had been salvaged, camp-fires were kindled, and we sat around the golden glow of their friendly warmth to still the shiverings of unaccustomed dampness. And in the hearts of all there was a rich and unusual exuberance because of the rare events of the day that had gifted succour for the present to the Great Lone Land of Thirst. II At another time the scene shifts from the abnormal back to the normal parched dryness, and I look out upon desert that is clothed in the character by which it is best known and recognised: _an awe-inspiring, sun-mastered immensity of sand and stone; secret as eternity_, and filled with the stillness and brooding melancholy of a place of the dead. The moment happens to be one of uneasiness. There are shadows of storm aslant the trail, and we hasten the caravan forward. But only with temporary purpose, knowing full well that nothing can stay the unleashing of the pent-up furies of the elements that already whisper and cry in their eagerness to descend in one great avalanche of whirling madness. The black columns of a sandstorm are approaching. For our puny caravan there is no escape. Distant at first, it draws within the range of minutes and moments; and then, swift as the flight of keen-winged birds, and swifter than the flames of a forest fire, the terrifying storm overtakes us. At once there is faltering and trembling before the shock. Vain are shouts to urge the camels onward. One or two flop instantly to the ground, while others struggle to keep their balance. . . . In a moment more all have broken from the line to crowd in panic with backs to the seething, stinging sand. We have completely halted—the camels have mutinied; and no power on earth can induce them to move while the storm continues. [Illustration: A WELL SUNK THROUGH SOLID ROCK NOTE HOW ROPES HAVE GROOVED THE ROCK FACE] We are caught in the sandstorm with a vengeance. There is no shelter whatever. Dazed, blinded men, working as in a shroud of dense smoke, grope for knot-ends and relieve the camels of their loads. These, banked as barricades, and the camels, are our only protection. But little they avail, for soon the encampment is literally buried. We huddle together, blinded, spluttering and choking, not daring to speak or expose ourselves further to the awful blizzard. It is trial enough to sit still, for, whatever the covering of protection, fine dust penetrates to the inmost recesses to sting eyes and lips, already smarting and swollen, and fill our throats and nostrils.