ANGELS OF DEATH In utter silence, moving only a foot at a time, the trio of man-hunters advanced.

They spaced themselves out, dragged themselves forward one at a time, took advantage of every slightest depression, every wrinkle in the sandy desert-floor, every mummy-like acacia and withered tamarisk-bush, some sparse growth of which began to mingle with the halfa-grass as they passed from the coast-dunes to the desert itself.
Breathing only through open mouths, for greater stillness, taking care to crackle no twig nor even slide loose sand, they labored on, under the pale-hazed starlight.

Their goal was vague.

Just where they should come upon the Beni Harb, in that confused jumble of dunes and _nullahs_ (ravines) they could not tell; nor yet did they know the exact distance separating the Legion's trenches from the enemy.

All was vague mystery--a mystery ready at any second, at any slightest alarm, to blaze out death upon them.
None the less, stout-hearted and firm of purpose, they serpented their painful way prone on the hot, dusty bosom of the Sahara.