causes surprisingly painful sensations; dust
as fine as wood-ashes, raised by the march of
the column and the wind, penetrates into
the eyes and nostrils, which it chokes and
clogs, as well as the ears.

Then begins a torture difficult to describe:
what can be done? They are just
as far off from the water they have left
behind them, as they are from that before
them; they must continue their march, happen
what may. The soldier feels thirst instinctively;
he goes on, and on, but in what a
state! In the midst of sufferings such as
these, when they are prolonged too far, men
have been known to commit suicide; others
become temporarily delirious; all are in
a state of nervous excitement, of concentrated
irritation, which gives to this troop
of human beings the aspect of a band of
maniacs. With distorted features, with fierce,
wild eyes starting from their sockets, the
wretched foot-soldier is subjected to a terrible
ordeal. This is the time for deceptive and
tantalising visions; every one has before his
eyes the image of a cool spring at the foot of
a shady tree. "O!" he says to himself, "if
I can ever return to such or such a brook, I
will pass my whole life beside it. What more
can a man desire, when he is able to roll and
revel in a cool stream, to make it trickle
down his arms, to splash it with his hands,
to drink it and enjoy it?"

But what is passing in the vanguard? It
is not a rumour which spreads; not a word
has been spoken since the sirocco came on;
but there is a certain movement, a hurrying
forward, which can only be the effect of the
presence of water. In fact, the detachment
at the head has caught sight of a cistern
which ought to contain water; they
approach. Deception. The little well is filled
with the carcasses of sheep, come from a
distance, probably driven by the south wind,
to die upon a few drops of moisture.
Nevertheless, there is still perhaps a little liquid;
the first comers remove the dead sheep, to
clear the spring, but all in vain; a little
brackish mud is all they can obtain, and such
as it is they swallow it greedily. Meanwhile,
the second detachment of men are sucking
the wool of the dead sheep, in the hope that
it may retain a little moisture.

A sort of mechanical movement in advance
continues. The only care is to preserve sufficient
strength to reach the springs as soon as
possible; the wind continues as high and as
hot as ever; it forces its way into the mouth,
it hinders respiration, it blinds, it deafens,
and a relentless sun darts its burning rays
incessantly. At last night comes on, bringing
a slight relief. If the sirocco continues to blow,
at least the burning sun has disappeared, and
the men drag themselves as far as the water
—the good and the beautiful water. How
they caress it, how they plunge their arms
and their heads into it, how they bless the
Creator who made water! Water, at this
moment, is the first marvel of creation. But
what a toil to reach it; how many comrades
are still on the road, lying panting on the
ground; how many will be a long, long time
before they join the first arrivals!

The enemy is close by; and a fresh start
must be made, in the hope of taking his camp,
his deïra. The column is apprised that it is
perhaps on the point of deciding grave
events, and of covering itself with glory. The
general has appealed to the usual energy of his
soldiers, and spoken of honour, of generous
sentiments, and he can do what he likes with
the worthy troopers. Once more they are
informed that the country to be traversed
produces absolutely nothing: they must
carry water and wood; and that is not all,
for they must take charge of the grass which
is to feed the oxen which accompany the
little army. Under extraordinary circumstances
like these, foot-soldiers will carry,
besides their usual burden, water, two by
two, as described, a little faggot of wood, and
a bunch of alfa for the beasts; this bunch,
stuck on the top of the knapsack, rises higher
than the men's heads, and forms a sort of
mountain on their backs, which renders them
invisible on three sides at least. From the
beginning of the march the riflemen will
grumble, mixing up their complaints with
jokes all the while. "What will be the end
of this? What will they expect us to
carry next? Can't the lazy bullocks bear
the weight of their own provisions on their
backs, strapped with ropes? I say, Breton,
or Bourguignon (the soldiers are fond of
addressing each other according to their
native provinces), one of these days they
will fit us with panniers, and then we shall
have to carry the mules!"

The troop is again obliged to have coffee
early, in order to profit by the small supply
of muddy liquid still remaining in the cans
and the boilers. The march is resumed.
We are completely in the Algerian Sahara,
in one of its worst parts; nothing is to be
seen but dust and sun. Starting at two in
the morning, we have had coffee by seven;
about five in the afternoon we come upon
some wells. There is to be a halt for two or
three hours; just time enough to prepare
some rice. In the dismal region where we
are, water is found only in little wells placed
close to each other, like organ-pipes, or the
cells in a honey-comb. And, what is
extraordinary at first sight, some of these wells
are salt, others not, without its being possible
to remark any order in their disposition.
Out of fifty wells, for instance, there
will be thirty of one sort and twenty of the
other, without any order in regard to their
place on the ground.

As soon as the column is refreshed, the
journey recommences. There is to be a
night-march, as a matter of course. By the
morning the fatigue is extreme: during
the past four-and-twenty hours, there have