and this was the third day's march. The mere suggestion is a touching one: for in all the mournful tales of the desert, none is sadder than the story of Hagar, driven from the tent of Abraham, and fleeing with her child into the wilderness, and there ready to perish with thirst, when saved by a spring that burst forth in the sand, perhaps the same which was now bubbling up at our feet.
This afternoon we passed over a succession of barren hills, the very abomination of desolation. But no matter, every step that we take brings us nearer home! Already my friend sees, though afar off, the signs of change. When he first came upon the squill plant, he could not restrain his excitement. "That plant," he said, "is never found except near the sea, or at least within the reach of the salt air. We are approaching the Mediterranean. It may be yet fifty or sixty miles off, but we are getting near it." How delightful is this enthusiasm of the man of science, which can make him forget illness and the fatigues of the desert!
But here the enthusiasm of the botanist outwent the strength of the man, and that night when we reached camp, after ten hours' march, I feared he would break down utterly. There was a deep sadness in his tone as he said: "If I am not better to-morrow, I cannot move." I never passed a night of greater anxiety in my life. All the horrors of the situation came upon me. I imagined myself arriving at Gaza alone, obliged to telegraph to Beirut and to Florence that my companion had died on the desert! These may seem wild imaginings, born of anxiety and fear; but let any man be thus alone with a sick friend in the heart of the desert, and see if his thoughts are not as black as the midnight above his tent.
The morning found him in no condition to move. "If I were at home," he said, "I should not only not leave my
