The edge below us presents under the rising sun the illusion of a sandy beach, then of a vast sea, even to the rippling of the waves. To the south a spur along which we ride takes the form of a headland, giving the whole outline below the appearance of a wide bay, like that of Algiers. After four hours' hard riding we halt for breakfast, being able with our glasses clearly to make out our convoy in the distance still ahead of us.

Our horses had hardly munched their barley when our guide began to grumble at our halting so long, and proceeded to disclose to us the very agreeable piece of intelligence, which he might have given us before, that the caravan we met last night had informed him that the brother of Sidi Hamsa had raised the standard of revolt, and was daily expected to attack Waregla, then under the rule of Sidi Zobeir, another brother, who had concluded a treaty last year at Algiers. In anticipation of the attack all the camels both at N'goussa and Waregla had been ordered to be driven in under the walls, as it was not known when these hordes might arrive to plunder. It was this report which had started off our sehaurs so early, and had caused them to continue to push on so indefatigably in order to reach Waregla before night. We had no choice but to press forwards and take care that our caravan did not camp another night beyond Sidi Zobeir's protection, since we had no provision of water for a retreat. After all, the Arabs are sad story-tellers; it may be only a desert "canard."

We ride on at a rapid pace-and splendid galloping ground it is; but first I break a stirrup-leather, and then Omar, with his usual felicity managing to get embarrassed with his pack-saddle, dismounts and maltreats the old horse to such a degree that he knowingly whisks

his long tail in the face of the irascible dragoman, and, making off at an easy trot, leaves him to follow on foot at discretion, and defies all his attempts at capture. A nearer view of the flat-topped hills with the fort-like shape plainly revealed the traces of a former table-land, gradually washed down through the drainage and action of water into the desert below.

We gained a view of the oasis of N'goussa to the N.E. as we rode along, with its palm-groves resembling a forest of masts in the sandy haze. We had planned to reserve our visit to it till our faces should be turned northward again, and gradually descended into the lower desert through an avenue of round-topped hills, which finally dwindled from hills to beehive-shaped mounds, dotted with tamarisk-bushes and some other small brushwood here and there.

These mounds are called "El Behkerat "-the young camels. The name is explained by the legend, that one day a sehaur, arriving from the desert with his camels, halted at a well under Dj. Krima to water them. But the well was preoccupied by a man drawing water for his palms. "Make haste, thou vile son of a black raven!" exclaimed the thirsty wayfarer. Unwittingly he had insulted a holy marabout. The saint, revengeful as those who would have invoked fire as Elias did, raised his eyes to heaven, stretched forth his hands, the camels lay down transformed into sand-hills, and the well was dried up for ever.

On one of the heights, the Djebel Krima, were the ruins of a fortified but now crumbling city, which had apparently commanded the access to the oasis from the north, but was now wasted without inhabitant. Below was a straggling forest of palms with thick underwood of dwarf tamarisk and other salt-loving shrubs. Among

these we caught a glimpse of our camels' heads just before us, our trusty second mekhasni, a native of Waregla, leading the van. A sand-mist rose on the plain in front, and underneath the surface glistened as if some broad stream were sleeping in the sunbeams. So complete was the illusion that P. declared it was a marsh, and muffled his face in a handkerchief to avoid the miasma. Beyond this from left to right stretched a dense date-forest, amidst which three tall minarets in the distance marked the position of the city of Waregla. To the north we could descry two caravans of camels creeping in long file towards the trees.

And now we had gained the last oasis in the Great Sahara. Nothing but the ocean of the mighty Libyan desert was beyond until Touat was reached to the westward. We sent forward our first horseman with our commendatory letter to Sidi Zobeir, the Kaliph of Waregla, and a fast friend of the French government.

The sleeping lake resolved itself into salt incrustations on the sand. Every plant as we descended was new and strange, but once in the plain itself there was not a vestige of vegetation. It was simply the broad bed of the Wed el Mia (river of the hundred streams), which had gone to follow their African confrères, whether above or below ground deponent sayeth not. The mists and exhalations proved dry indeed. Riding across the fine penetrating sand, we gradually mounted to the oasis, by far the largest we had seen.

Having heard that Sidi Zobeir was camped on the outside of the city, we halted in the palm-groves. Low black tents peeped everywhere from the blue bushes or contrasted with the white sand-hillocks. At length, after a council of war, weary of waiting, we rode on