That gleam of river must be somewhere near Halfa, and his wife might be upon the very water at which he looked.

He pulled his hat over his eyes, and rode in gloomy silence, biting at his strong, iron-grey moustache.
Slowly the sun sank towards the west, and their shadows began to trail along the path where their hearts would go.

It was cooler, and a desert breeze had sprung up, whispering over the rolling, stone-strewed plain.
The Emir at their head had called his lieutenant to his side, and the pair had peered about, their eyes shaded by their hands, looking for some landmark.

Then, with a satisfied grunt, the chief's camel had seemed to break short off at its knees, and then at its hocks, going down in three curious, broken-jointed jerks until its stomach was stretched upon the ground.

As each succeeding camel reached the spot it lay down also, until they were all stretched in one long line.
The riders sprang off, and laid out the chopped tibbin upon cloths in front of them, for no well-bred camel will eat from the ground.
In their gentle eyes, their quiet, leisurely way of eating, and their condescending, mincing manner, there was something both feminine and genteel, as though a party of prim old maids had foregathered in the heart of the Libyan Desert.
There was no interference with the prisoners, either male or female, for how could they escape in the centre of that huge plain?
The Emir came towards them once, and stood combing out his blue-black beard with his fingers, and looking thoughtfully at them out of his dark, sinister eyes.