weary backs, the murmurings of the troops grew loud.  This, then, was the land “more fertile than Lombardy,” which was the goal of their wanderings.  “See, there are the six acres of land which you are promised,” exclaimed a waggish soldier to his comrade as they first gazed from ship-board on the desert east of Alexandria; and all the sense of discipline failed to keep this and other gibes from the ears of staff officers even before they reached that city.  Far worse was their position now in the shifting sand of the desert, beset by hovering Bedouins, stung by scorpions, and afflicted by intolerable thirst.  The Arabs had filled the scanty wells with stones, and only after long toil could the sappers reach the precious fluid beneath.  Then the troops rushed and fought for the privilege of drinking a few drops of muddy liquor.  Thus they struggled on, the succeeding divisions faring worst of all.  Berthier, chief of the staff, relates that a glass of water sold for its weight in gold.  Even brave officers abandoned themselves to transports of rage and despair which left them completely prostrate.[103]

But Bonaparte flinched not.  His stern composure offered the best rebuke to such childish sallies; and when out of a murmuring group there came the bold remark, “Well, General, are you going to take us to India thus,” he abashed the speaker and his comrades by the quick retort, “No, I would not undertake that with such soldiers as you.”  French honour, touched to the quick, reasserted itself even above the torments of thirst; and the troops themselves, when they tardily reached the Nile and slaked their thirst in its waters, recognized the pre-eminence of his will and his profound confidence in their endurance.  French gaiety had not been wholly eclipsed even by the miseries of the desert march.  To cheer their drooping spirits the commander had sent some of the staunchest generals along the line of march.  Among them was the gifted Caffarelli, who had lost a leg in the Rhenish campaign:  his reassuring words called forth the inimitable retort from the ranks:  “Ah! he don’t care, not he:  he has one leg in France.”  Scarcely less witty was the soldier’s description of the prowling Bedouins, who cut off stragglers and plunderers, as “The mounted highway police.”

After brushing aside a charge of 800 Mamelukes at Chebreiss, the army made its way up the banks of the Nile to Embabeh, opposite Cairo.  There the Mamelukes, led by the fighting Bey, Murad, had their fortified camp; and there that superb cavalry prepared to overwhelm the invaders in a whirlwind rush of horse (July 21st, 1798).  The occasion and the surroundings were such as to inspire both sides with desperate resolution.  It was the first fierce shock on land of eastern chivalry and western enterprise since the days of St. Louis; and the ardour of the republicans was scarcely less than that which had kindled the soldiers of the cross.  Beside the two armies rolled the mysterious Nile;