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THE SOUND OF THE DESERT 265
around one seem shadowy and distant. It was a
waking sleep ; one's senses were numb because of the
absence of anything to call them into play, though
one might "see, hear, feel, outside the senses." In
the same way that one is alone in a London street one
can live in a whirl in the desert; the throb of
humanity——— X's umbrella shut with a bang.
" Wake up, the caravan is coming." A cloud of dust,
a stamping of animals, a shouting of men, and we
were off once more. It was our habit to keep pace
with the camp in the latter half of the day, and for
the next three hours we dawdled along at caravan
pace. It was a motley crew. The muleteers trudge
along behind the laden animals, taking turns on the
back of a patient, sorrowful donkey, on which they
ride sideways with dangling legs, pricking its side
with a long needle, the secondary object of which is
the repairing of broken straps. The pack mules go
doggedly on in front, jostling one another with their
unwieldy loads. Occasionally one gets off the track
and wanders aside, only to be urged back into line
with yells and blows. Another stops dead, feeling its
load slip round sideways. The men rush at it with
shouts of " Allah ! Allah ! " the load is shoved up and
the ropes tightened. There is a general din of
shouting and swearing and jangling of bells ; and
above it all the disdainful camel moves deliberately on
with measured step and arched neck, unmindful of the
petty skirmishes so far below it; its owner, infected
by its spirit, rocking on the top, surveys the whole
scene with a dejected, uninterested air. Bringing up
the rear, motionless and erect on small donkeys, ride