“FERI N’GASHI” =“White feather.” My riding camel. [Illustration: NOMAD AND CAMEL-MAN] I am conscious, as I look the caravan over, of a soft-hearted affection towards both man and beast. They have all served loyally, and have given of strength to the uttermost. Moreover, the whole caravan has come to embrace that free-and-easy, comprehending comradeship, that belongs to the wise when long on the great Open Road. We have, therefore, as a body, lost all rawness and idle ornament. The weaknesses in our composition at the start have been found out and gone under. Battered, but hardened, we are travelling now as a band complete and experienced through grim wilderness of naked reality. The men that remain are of sterling quality, and all, except Sili, look like lasting through any amount of hardship. But it is not so with the camels. Good as they are, they are not built to endure continuous work for ever; and the greatest struggle and sacrifice are theirs. No matter how much one may try to save them, the pitiless country claims its victims from their midst. All along the trail that lies behind I have witnessed their comrades go out, and know that, inevitably, others must follow. Indeed, too well I know that few, if any, will ever reach the goal; and that it will be left to others—that must be found among natives in remote oases—to carry us through to the North African Coast—if we are ever to reach our distant destination. But all wayfarers in the desert become fatalistic, and the many misfortunes of the trail teach the traveller to consign all disasters to “Kismet,” or “Mektuib”; for it is learned, sooner or later, that this is a land where Destiny irrevocably takes its course, whatever man’s hopes may be. Wherefore the deep eastern sadness that is found in the hearts of the nomads of the desert, and that touches the soul of the white man in the end. As if to bear out my thoughts, trouble rides upon us. The caravan has halted suddenly. Something is wrong in the rear. Gumbo calls out that Mizobe is down. We find that he has collapsed wearily on the sand and does not want to move. He is far through, but we cannot camp and wait beside him. So in a little time he is persuaded to rise to his feet again; and the caravan moves slowly on. But it is not very long before the poor old fellow gives up again, for his is a losing fight in the full heat of the midday sun. We try for a little to encourage him to get up, but to no avail. He is past further struggle. I order the caravan to move onward, and remain behind with Elatu, beside the prostrate animal, for I cannot leave the poor brute to die a slow, lingering death, with the agony of pitiless surroundings holding finality immediately before his eyes. When the caravan is distant there is a single revolver shot—and we are one less in our band.