Oh, yes! I remember that camel-day--it's never likely to die out of my memory, for never did I endure a worse experience nor a harder in all my sporting life. It promised to be a great duck-shoot on the famous "Laguna Grande"; but for me, at any rate, it began, continued, and ended in misery! At 3.30 A.M., on opening my eyes, I saw Bertie already silently astir--probably seeking quinine or other febrifuge, for we were "housed" (save the mark) in Clarita's _choza_, a lethal mud-and reed-thatched hut many a mile out in the marisma. Nothing whatever lies within sight--nothing bar desolation of mud and stagnant waters, reeds, samphire, and BIRDS, relieved at intervals by the occasional and far-away view of a steamer's funnel, navigating the Guadalquivír Sevillewards. Well, we arose, looked at what was intended for breakfast, and groped for our steeds. I was to ride an old polo-pony named _Bufalo_, an evil-tempered veteran with a long-spoilt "mouth" that ever resented the Spanish curb. Cold and empty we rode for two long hours in the dark, always following the leader since otherwise inevitable loss must ensue--splosh, splosh, through deep mud and deeper water, never stopping, always stumbling, slipping, slithering onwards. I feared it would never end; and, in fact, it never did--that is, the bog. For when I was finally told "Abajo" (which I understood to mean "get down"), and to squat in a miry place so much like the rest of the swamp that it didn't seem to matter much where it really was--well, it was then only 6 A.M. and horribly cold and desolate. [Illustration: WILD CAMELS OF THE MARISMA. PHOTOS BY H.R.H. PHILIPPE, DUKE OF ORLEANS. CAPTURING A WILD CAMEL. THE CAPTIVE.] An hour later the sun began to rise. I had not fired a shot--nor had any of us. As a duck-shoot it was a dismal failure. By eight o'clock the sun was quite hot, so I tried to find a stomach--for breakfast. Failed again; but drank some sherry, and then lay down till noon in decomposing and malodorous reed-mush and mud. Never a duck came near, so shifted my stye to an old dry ridge--apparently an antediluvian division between two equally noisome swamps. Here I tried to sleep, but that was no good, for a headache had set in--possibly the effects of sun and sherry combined! I felt the sweeping wind of a marsh-harrier who had found me too suddenly and was half a mile away ere I could get up to shoot. At four o'clock I signalled for _Bufalo_ to take me back to our hut, distant eight miles, the only guide being that morning's outward tracks.