The camel sowars are packed, and ready to move on the afternoon's trek. The road is stony as we walk between the hills. Since that time recorded in the Book of Genesis God has not laid His hand here. The earth's crust has been burst through and over-run by a molten mass spewed forth from her bowels. Here one walks over rough sharp stones that play havoc with the boots; there on a concrete-like conglomerate of white or pinkish stone. The hills have been scoured in past ages by water-courses until their very vitals, masses of grey rock strata tilted on edge from which great lumps have been torn and tossed in broken fragments to the valley below, have been shamelessly exposed. Time has been pitilessly and steadily crumbling away these sharp, skeleton-like protrusions into a mantle of powder and small stones, now falling over, and gradually hiding, the gaping wounds. And, as the channels of the torrents that have worked this chaos fell lower and lower, the water, baulked of its prey, turned to vent its spite on the poor stones torn from the heights above. Over and over it has rolled them, ground them together, rubbed them with sand, worked around them until worn into smooth boulders. They are now barely recognisable as being of the mother rock above. Then suddenly, from out of all this we come to a stream, Dur-dur-'ad, "the White Running Water." Exactly one year ago I sat on the banks of a stream that ran down the slopes of Mount Elgon. Since then I have been to England and seen running water--if I except the Thames--only from the windows of a railway carriage. What a joy is running water, and how many people know it? How many people living by streams take them for granted, and so miss more than the man who rarely sees them. For, believe me, it is to the latter that the babbling waters talk and tell most. And the waters of Dur-dur-'ad, to-day, found a ready and willing listener, who drank with pleasure of their prattling music. Does it matter, excepting to me, what they said? Not long ago I read that a man should mark out his life's course with posts, keeping in sight only one at a time. And I, reading this, promised myself that the last goal-post on my course should be a spring. A spring shaded with cool willow trees; the waters to be not so clouded but that a man, or a little child, leaning over might see his image within. III Last night they told me that it was unsafe to march before daylight, as the camp vicinity was infested with lions, "bad lions." That meant that the men were tired and wanted rest, so we arranged to march at daylight. And we marched at nine a.m. Dur-dur-'ad came down in spate during the night, and as the road crosses and recrosses beyond the camping place, we waited for the torrent to fall, which it did as suddenly as it had come.