and their gardens. For miles they had travelled over sandy desert, and for miles through patches of cultivation, vineyards and well-tilled fields. They had met no one and had heard nothing more alarming than the barking of dogs. Now they had reached an utterly desert spot, and it had seemed to the leader of the party to be as safe a place as they would find in which to sleep away the day. It was not too near road, path, building, or cultivation, so far as he could tell, and about a mile from the railway. The cluster of great rocks would hide them from view of any possible wayfarer on foot, horseback, or camel, and would also shelter them from the rays of the sun. He judged that they were some two or three miles from Les Imberts station, and four or five from the village of that name.
The next trouble would be water. They'd probably want water pretty badly before they got it. Perhaps it would rain. That would give them water, but would hardly improve the chances of himself and Rupert as convincing tourists. Thank Heaven they had a spare clean collar each, anyhow. Good old Mendoza. What an artist he was! …
John Bull fell asleep.
§5
"Look, my brothers! Behold!" cried "Goum" Hassan ibn Marbuk, an hour later, as he reined in his horse and pointed to where the footprints of four men left a track and turned off into the desert. "Franzwazi—they wear boots. It is they. Allah be praised. A hundred francs for us, and death for four Roumis. Let us kill the dogs."
