24 THE WAR IN THE SOUDAN.

its scarcity. Members of the Catholic mission at El Obeid, where water is much more plentiful than in the deserts, assured me that, the summer before, water had been sold as high as half a dollar a gallon by the proprietors of the

few wells that had not dried up. As to the quality, desert water is generally bad, the exception being when it is worse, though long custom enables the Bedouins to drink water so brackish as to be intolerable to all except them¬

selves and their flocks. The atmoor, as the Arabs call it, is truly the ideal desert, consisting mainly of hard gravel plains diversified by zones of deep

sand, rocky ridges, sometimes of considerable altitude, and rugged defiles. It is absolutely destitute of all vegetation, and consequently of animal life, only the ostrich and hyena cross it swiftly by night, and the vulture hovers over the caravans by day. Not a tree, not a bush, not a blade of grass re¬ lieves the glare of the sunlight upon the yellow sand. No one can resist the

solemn impression of deep silence and infinite space produced by the desert. When night has come, and the soldiers and Bedouins are asleep in their

bivouacs, walk away under the unequalled African moon beyond the first ridge of sand or rocks. Around you stretches a boundless sea-like horizon.

The sand gleams almost as white as snow. Not a sound falls upon the ear, not the murmur of a breeze, not the rustle of leaf or grass, not the hum of the smallest insect. Silence—only silence—as profound as death, unless it is broken by the howl of a prowling hyena or the distant roar of the king of beasts. Within the limits of Egypt and the Soudan these desolate atmoors extend over three-quarters of a million of square miles, never trodden by the

foot of man. Only a few caravan trails cross them in their narrowest parts, with scanty wells at long intervals ; and the necessities of trade can alone account for their being penetrated at all. They are oceans, where caravans pass each in haste, like vessels at sea. The marches are perfectly terrible, and yet it is

worse to halt during the day than to keep in motion, for the heat makes sleep

or rest impossible, even under canvas. With the burning sand under your feet and the vertical sun over your head, you are as between the lids of an

oven. In June the thermometer rises to 150° and 160°. The air that blows feels as if it had just passed through a furnace or a brick-kiln. Over the

plains it quivers visibly in the sun, as if rising from a red-hot stove, while the

mirage mocks your senses with the most life-like image of lakes, ponds, and rippling waters.”—(Century, March, 1885.)

The dress of the Soudanese women if not voluminous is simple. They attire themselves in dark blue calico, which they wrap round the waist, and which covers them down to the knees. Besides this they wear a white muslin veil, which covers the head and the face, leaving only the eyes exposed. They

are very fond of ornaments, especially of beads, which they wear not only round their necks, but also round their waists, and their wrists. They further