On the eighth day from his departure, every eye but my own was turned to the point at which they had seen him disappear. About 3 p.m., one of the men came to inform me that Mr. Browne was crossing the creek, the camp being on its left bank, and in a few minutes afterwards he entered my tent. “Well, Browne,” said I, “what news? Is it to be good or bad?” “There is still water in the creek,” said he, “but that is all I can say. What there is is as black as ink, and we must make haste, for in a week it will be gone.” Here then the door was still open,—a way to escape still practicable, and thankful we both felt to that Power which had directed our steps back again ere it was finally closed upon us; but even now we had no time to lose: to have taken the cattle without any prospect of relief until they should arrive at Flood’s Creek, would have been to sacrifice almost the whole of them, and to reduce the expedition to a condition such as I did not desire. The necessary steps to be taken, in the event of Mr. Browne’s bringing back good tidings, had engaged my attention during his absence, and with his assistance, that on which I had determined was immediately put into execution. I directed three more bullocks to be shot, and their skins prepared; and calculated that by abandoning the boat and our heavier stores, we might carry a supply of water on the drays, sufficient for the use of the remaining animals on the way. Three bullocks were accordingly killed, and the skins stripped over them from the neck downwards, so that the opening might be as small as possible.