from his right hand to his left and allow the eased arm to drop down at his side. From the safe distance of London he was watching himself thus employed,—watching critically. Yet whenever he put out his hand to the canvas that he might paint the tawny yellow desert under the glare of the sinking moon, the black shadow of the camel and the two bowed figures atop, that hand held a revolver and the arm was numbed from wrist to collar-bone. Moreover, he was in the dark, and could see no canvas of any kind whatever.
The driver grunted, and Dick was conscious of a change in the air.
'I smell the dawn,' he whispered.
'It is here, and yonder are the troops. Have I done well?'
The camel stretched out its neck and roared as there came down wind the pungent reek of camels in square.
'Go on. We must get there swiftly. Go on.'
'They are moving in their camp. There is so much dust that I cannot see what they do.'
'Am I in better case? Go forward.'
They could hear the hum of voices ahead, the howling and the bubbling of the beasts and the hoarse cries of the soldiers girthing up for the day. Two or three shots were fired.
