This sounded cheerful, and with one accord we went out to inspect. The Spahi’s account was unfortunately but slightly exaggerated, and we stood staring at our tiny steeds with dismay. We had still fifty kilometres before us, and the roads for at least twenty-five were nothing but cross-country paths. Should we turn back, or try to find other horses and go on? I voted emphatically for going on. Aided by the Spahi, my husband finally unearthed a man and two horses, and at eight o’clock we set off once more. Everything again went well for ten kilometres; then our misfortunes really began. When going up a hill the ground grew soft and the wheels of the brake sank in. “The snow is melting farther on,” remarked the coachman, laconically; “the underground springs are overflowing.” On we went laboriously, our Jehu yelling at the struggling horses, whilst the carriage wobbled to and fro in a most alarming fashion. “Don’t you think it would do us good to walk a bit?” I suggested. “It would make things easier for the horses.” “It would be safer,” said my husband, who was looking anxious. So out we got--and two minutes later the whole concern toppled over, our boxes, portmanteaux, and packets flying all over the place. The horses were plunging and kicking; the coachman, an Italian, and the Arab boy were yelling and swearing in their respective languages, whilst my husband _exclaimed_ in French (he doesn’t swear, but I am sure he would have liked to on this occasion). The scene was so unutterably comic that I could not help myself; I laughed until the tears rolled down my cheeks. I draw a curtain over the face my better half turned on me--scowling was not in it--and although I assured him I was really quite as upset as the carriage he has not recovered from my frivolity to this day. The men picked up the carriage and the baggage and put all in order and we thought we should get on again, but, alas! the wheels refused to move an inch; the more we tried the deeper they sank. After two hours of vain endeavour, Peppino, the coachman, suggested sending Ali to have a look round the country to see if he could find a village and get men with spades to come and dig us out. The boy set off, returning later with five stalwart men, who comparatively soon dug us out and accompanied us for a few kilometres on our way, pushing and yelling when necessary. Then they left us, saying the road was good right up to Boghar. It was now past two o’clock, and our lunch loomed very dimly in the far distance, having been ordered for twelve o’clock at Boghar. About three o’clock we saw snow on the side of the road, which again grew slushy and soft. My husband and Peppino were obliged to run behind, pushing at the wheels at the difficult places, whilst the Arab boy cheered on his mules and Peppino’s horses.