Such miserable country beggars description.  Nothing is more heartrending than to be forced to camp night after night with the knowledge that one’s poor animals are wandering vainly in search of feed.  To tie them down would have given them some rest, but at the same time it entailed their certain starvation; whilst, wandering about, they stood some chance of picking up a mouthful or two.  How anxiously each ridge was scanned when camping-time drew near—­no feed—­on again another ridge or two, no feed—­just one more ridge, and, alas! “no feed” is again the cry.  So we camped perforce without it, and often the famished camels would wander two or three miles in the night in search of it, and this meant an extra walk to recover them in the morning.

On the morning of the 27th Warri brought in all the camels but one, with a message from Breaden that Misery was dying.  Small wonder if all had been in the same state, for we were now eight days from the last water, and tough as camels are they cannot go waterless and foodless for very many days in such trying country as this.  Poor old Misery!  This was sad news indeed, but all that could be done to save him should be done.

This morning a smoke rose due West of us.  We had seen so few signs of natives lately that we could not afford to neglect this, even though it was so far from our proper course.

By the time we had loaded the camels and distributed his load amongst the rest, Breaden brought Misery into camp, and when we started, followed with him behind us, coaxing him along as best he could.  Eight miles brought us into the region of the burning spinifex and fresh tracks; despatching Charlie on Satan, and Godfrey and Warri on foot, to track up and catch a native if possible, I unloaded the camels and awaited Breaden’s arrival.  Presently he came alone, saying that poor Misery was done for and could move no further, so he had left him.  I felt sure that that was the case, since Breaden would not have come without him if there had been any possibility of getting him further.  Nevertheless, I could not bear to leave my faithful and favourite camel to die by slow degrees, and returned on Breaden’s tracks.  I took with me a brandy-bottle full of Epsom salts and water, for from Breaden’s account of his way of going on I felt sure that poor Misery had eaten some poisonous plant.  Four miles back I found him lying apparently dead in the shade of a tree, or where the shade would have been had there been any foliage; he knew me and looked up when I spoke to and patted him, and rested his head in my lap as I sat down beside him; but no amount of coaxing could get him on his legs.  Having administered the salts, which he evidently enjoyed, I proceeded to bleed him by slitting his ear; my knife, however, was not sharp enough, (for everything becomes dulled in this sand) to do the job properly, and he bled but little.  I could do nothing but wait, so taking a diminutive edition of Thackeray from my pocket, for