We only skirted the border of the palms of Todghrá, and in half an hour were in the desert again, which extends from here to Ferkla, our night’s resting-place, with the exception of the little district of Tabsibast, near which are some fertile gardens. From here on we trudged for sixteen miles along a weary road of stone and sand, black stone on yellow soil, with not a speck of anything green in sight. The road runs parallel to the Wad Todghrá, on the southern slope of a low line of hills, distant from the north bank of the river from one to three miles. Equidistant on the southern side rises the dismal black line of Jibel Saghru. This barren district is known as Seddat, and is said to be a favourite ground for the horsemen of the neighbourhood to pillage caravans upon,—nor could a more suitable spot be chosen, for not only was no habitation visible, but we saw no sign of life, beyond a few gazelle, the whole way. The wad proceeds through the district of Seddat first directly east, but when rather more than half its length has been accomplished—say some ten miles—the track turns slightly more to the north, continuing this direction until the large and important oasis of Ferkla is reached. Just at sunset, having been fourteen hours on the march, and on foot the entire time, we entered Ferkla. I was too tired, and too hungry, to admire the magnificent forest of palms, the walled gardens over the top of which showed up fruit-trees of many varieties, and jasmine and roses, and the multiplicity of canals that, confused as a spider’s web, carried the clear sparkling water in every direction. The presence of these canals, however, was a relief, for from Tabsibast we had seen no water, and the heat had been very great during the afternoon. Although we carried enough in a stone jar on the back of one of our donkeys to assuage thirst, there was not a sufficient quantity to allow us to bathe our weary and blistered feet. The formation of the soil of this desert—in fact, of all the country from Ghresat to Tafilet—is such as to render walking very unpleasant, though the roads are nearly all level. Moorish slippers are impossible, owing to the movement of the shoe on the foot at every step that is taken, which, the shoe being full of sand, quickly rubs the sharp grains into the sole of the foot, causing most painful blisters at once. On this account the natives never use the shoe, preferring a sandal, which, consisting only of a leather sole tied over the ankle and between the toes with a narrow band of raw hide, does not hang loosely on the foot, nor tend to collect sand. But I found that this method was equally painful, owing to the fact that the raw hide bands, unsoftened by tanning, cut deeply into the skin. At length I was obliged to abandon both and proceed barefoot, a plan which, though it caused me much pain for a time, eventually hardened the skin so that it became impervious to the roughness of the sandy or stony roads.