Marching Sands
Some distance ahead a man was moving toward them. It was a white man, on foot and walking very slowly. Gray recognized Sir Lionel Hastings.
Followed by the Kirghiz, he approached the Englishman. Sir Lionel did not look up until they were a few paces away. Then he halted, swaying from the weariness of one who has been walking for a long time.
He was without coat, rifle, or sun helmet. His lean face was lined with fatigue. The hand that fumbled for his eyeglasses trembled. His boots and puttees were dust stained.
"Is that you, Captain Gray?" he asked uncertainly.
"Yes, Sir Lionel. What's up? Where's the caravan?" Gray had been about to ask for Mary, but checked himself. "You'll want a drink. Here"
The Englishman shook his head. Gray observed that his bald forehead was reddened with the sun; that his usually well-kept yellow hair was turned a drab with the dust.
"I had water, thanks. Back there, by the tamarisk tree. The caravan camped there for the night, two—or three days ago. I don't remember which." He wheeled slowly in his tracks. "Come."
A moment's walk took them to the few bushes and the tamarisk. There a well had been dug. Sir Lionel refused to mount one of the mules, although he was plainly far gone with exhaustion. At the
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