been in
the saddle since dawn, riding over desolate tracks in the heart of the
desert. I was hungry, tired, and felt almost like a man hypnotised. The
strong air, the clear sky, the everlasting flats devoid of vegetation,
empty of humanity, the monotonous motion of my slowly cantering
horse--all these things combined to dull my brain and to throw me into
a peculiar condition akin to the condition of a man in a trance. At
Sidi-Massarli I was to pass the night. I drew rein and looked down on it
with lack-lustre eyes.

I saw a small group of palm-trees, guarded by a low wall of baked brown
earth, in which were embedded many white bones of dead camels. Bleached,
grinning heads of camels hung from more than one of the trees, with
strings of red pepper and round stones. Beyond the wall of this palm
garden, at whose foot was a furrow full of stagnant brownish-yellow
water, lay a handful of wretched earthen hovels, with flat roofs of
palmwood and low wooden doors. To be exact, I think there were five of
them. The Bordj, or Travellers' House, at which I was to be accommodated
for the night, stood alone near a tiny source at the edge of a large
sand dune, and was a small, earth-coloured building with a pink tiled
roof, minute arched windows, and an open stable for the horses and
mules. All round the desert rose in humps of sand, melting into stony
ground where the saltpetre lay like snow on a wintry world. There were
but few signs of life in this place; some stockings drying on the wall
of a ruined Arab cafe, some kids frisking by a heap of sacks, a few
pigeons circling about a low square watch-tower, a black donkey brooding
on a dust heap. There were some signs of death; carcasses of camels
stretched here and there in frantic and fantastic postures, some
bleached and smooth, others red and horribly odorous.

The wind blew round this hospitable township of the Sahara, and the
yellow light of evening began to glow above it. It seemed to me at that
moment the dreariest place in the dreariest dream man had ever had.

Suddenly my horse neighed loudly. Beyond the village, on the opposite
hill, a white Arab charger caracoled, a red cloak gleamed. Another
traveller was coming in to his night's rest, and he was a Spahi. I could
almost fancy I heard the jingle of his spurs and accoutrements, the
creaking of his tall red boots against his high peaked saddle. As he
rode down towards the Bordj--by this time, I, too, was on my way--I saw
t