“The camp is not large; about ten families in all. Entering it, no one is in view. The stock are being tended far afield, and those who remain in camp are watching my movements in hiding. The sole occupant of the first hut is an old woman. I salute her in her own tongue and seek out the next, about half a mile away. Here a pie-dog is barking viciously, and two men turn up to await my approach. “We meet and scrutinise one another, as men on their guard. Then we commence to talk, and soon my business is explained: I wish to find the nearest well to take water in the evening. “Very shortly other Tuaregs arrive surreptitiously, with inquiry in the dark eyes that peer from behind mask-like veils. The news of a stranger has flown round the encampment, and that is summons enough. “We move under the shade of an acacia, and sit on the loose sand and chat. My camel-men do most of the talking, and I am aware that they progress toward friendship. “In the hut, near by, there is a woman and two children. We have awakened them from their sleep in the heat of the day, and the children are inclined to hide and draw back like frightened animals. A panting goat, that is sick, is tied to the bed within. The rounded dome of the hut, and the society of human beings is a picture that is pleasant to wilderness-weary eyes, and we stay beside the camp for a while. A lad departs to find the herds, and bring in some fresh milk. I enjoy a deep draught, while my henchmen join the nomads in devouring a meal—all eating from the one dish with curious wooden spoons. “In the evening I set out to the well, about three miles away. I hear the bleat of goats and sheep, and the strident cries of herdsfolk, and know the flocks are coming in from pasture. “Great dependence is placed upon the ability of the animals to follow familiar sound, and each flock-shepherd, usually a woman and two or three naked or scanty-ragged boys and girls, repeat a strung-out, modulating call, peculiar to themselves alone, and answered and obeyed only by the animals of that particular family—which is a great aid in keeping them together, and from mixing with others, in fenceless pastures. “The region is appallingly vast, and I am conscious of admiration for the strange people who roam abroad over those boundless sands that hold only occasional grazings that neighbour the ground in wasted paleness. “Approaching the well, I see that flocks are being watered; gathered in from fenceless wastes to slake their pressing thirst. They rest on the sand, waiting their turn to drink, while the slow process of drawing a bucketful of water at a time is laboured at by their owners. And all the while the insistent cries of weary, thirsty animals ring in the air. [Illustration: A TUAREG WITH RIFLE AND EQUIPMENT BESIDE AN ABANDONED WHEAT URN IN NORTHERN AÏR]