Elatu, the head camel-man, had gravely told me, while we worked together over the wounds, his fears and doubts of the land we travelled, and his fears and doubts of the well-being of our beasts of burden. We had camped that morning at _water_, but he advised that we should not stay through the day, because there was no fit pasturage for our weary, used-up camels. Wherefore, after a meal that I barely touched, except to gulp down cup after cup of tea, we reloaded the tired camels in the small hours of the afternoon and continued slowly on our way. Ten hours later we wearily camped, and men scarcely spoke while, in the deep darkness, they unburdened the camels, and laid themselves down to rest . . . and then the kindly hand of night was mercifully laid upon the cares of an impoverished band. IV The caravan is in want of water, and desperately anxious to find it. Having lately detected a frayed rope and some pellets of wasted camel-dung, we are fairly certain that an old trail has been picked up. Some hours later we become sure of water ahead when we pass a number of heaps of stones piled by human hands; the Token Stones of grateful wayfarers who have slaked their thirst in the desert, and surreptitiously left behind this expression of their thanks. The Tuaregs say that most of these token heaps are the work of slaves, who, in the past, in this way endeavoured to mark the places of water over the route they were borne as captives, in case they should ever escape. Nevertheless, few nomads of the land to-day, having drunk their fill, will pass from place of water without stooping to add further stones to the piles that sit, like symbols of some weird religion, in their path. Two camels shoot ahead of the line. Wild, saddle-perfect Tuaregs ride them to water at a swinging trot. They mean to return, with goatskins of water, to slake the pressing thirst of the men, long before we camp. The noon hours recede, but not the oven heat, and slowly under that weight, the long span of the afternoon drags on. Towards dusk the journey ends, and our column moves into a curious narrow declivity that finishes in a quarry-like space. We descend, and are lost from the landscape above. There is no sign of water or living soul; but the cliffs and dishevelled rocks of the den are literally covered with strange drawings and writings. With whisperings of awe one of the men who had gone in front tells that we are in a secret place of water that he has recognised. “Not many know of it,” he assures me. “A few of my people, and robbers from Ahaggar; but not the robbers from Tibesti. You are the first white man who has seen it.” [Illustration: A CAMP-FIRE BENEATH THE SHADE OF ROCKS] “But where is the water?” I exclaim, scanning the rocks and the sand carpet beneath my feet.