It is known to the Tuaregs by the name _Elkelzif_, and on many occasions I have, with something of pride, told my camel-men, or explained to strangers of the trail, “Under that star lies my house”; and so it seemed in its distant, steadfast position. It became, in fact, the definite symbol of home, the elusive “light” of a distant land that I must ever endeavour to reach, and when it showed in the sky it was welcomed almost with affection, and always as a friend. And these feelings may be understood when it is remembered that my caravan travelled or lay beneath its guiding light for over four hundred nights, which is a long time anywhere; mayhap, oppressively long in the monotony of great solitudes. Always, through long weary nights, the North Star twinkled in its steadfast place, with the pointers of “The Plough,” out-stationed like signposts, seeming to direct the traveller to take notice and take heart from the countenance of their sovereign light, that clearly gleamed over the broad highway hung from the roof of heaven. And, always facing that friendly star, the farther my camels travelled toward it the nearer I came to the goal; until at long last great hope arose that my caravan would get through. It was then May of the second year. The caravan had reached the Algerian Sahara and was riding hard for rail-head. But how altered from the start was my little band and its possessions! It had been composed of thirty-six camels and fifteen natives at the commencement, in the spring of the previous year; now all the camels had gone, except Feri n’Gashi, the camel I rode. Awena, the last of the others, had fallen out on the 16th. Of the original natives only two remained: Ali, an Arab of Ghat, and Sakari, a Hausa of Kano. Lack of stamina, sickness, and failure in courage had claimed the rest at various stages of the journey. Only two died as the result of the undertaking. When to me came hope of reaching the goal Sakari’s impression at the same moment was that he had come so far that he would never see home again. During those latter stages it is not too much to say that Glover (the cinema operator) and I were bubbling over with happy anticipations. The most discussed subject, next to the thoughts of those who waited our coming, was our conjectures of the enjoyment we should have in eating _real food_ again. That which appealed vastly to both of us was the prospect of _pure white bread and butter_—no doubt because we had lived so long in a state of constant sandy grittiness, and had almost forgotten the taste and the delicious purity of a fresh oven-loaf. Also, during this month, we had nothing left to eat other than rice and _couscous_. [Illustration: “EVER HEADING INTO THE NORTH”]