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THE COUNTRY OF THE WILD CAMEL. 125
heard my own voice ; mouth, eyes and nose were all
chock-full of sand. I had to stop to catch my breath ; I
felt as if I were wading through mud or water ; I turned
giddy ; I knew nothing of my people. My position was
growing critical, I thought I had lost my way in the blind-
ing clouds of drift-sand. It is always dangerous to leave
a caravan during a storm ;
you may perhaps never find it
again. At length, however, I caught sight of a spectral
figure looming through the haze. It was honest Chernoff
looking for me. He had shouted himself hoarse, but I
never heard his voice, not even when he was only a yard or
two distant from me.
Meanwhile, the other men had freed the camels from
their burdens. My tent was put up behind the shelter of
a tamarisk-mound, though only the upper half of the tent-
poles were used. The side-ropes were lashed round the
projecting massive roots, and the superfluous folds of the
side canvas were anchored with heavy pieces of timber.
After that the tent stood pretty firm. But the men were
unable to use their tent, because the poles could not be
taken to pieces.
The men sat crouched together in a heap. The camels
lay in a long line, with their backs to the wind and their
necks flat on the ground, stretched out in the direction
towards which the wind blew. The wind had a velocity
of 60 miles an hour, and we had to exert ourselves to the
utmost to stand against it. When I stooped down I was
almost suffocated with the dense clouds of dust and sand
that were swept along the ground. It was impossible to
think of preparing any food to eat ; we had to content our-
selves with water and bread—and a strong seasoning of
sand. The sand penetrated the canvas of the tent and
whirled in from every side. Every object lying about was
covered within the space of half-an-hour ; the ink dried
up in my pen, and the pen rasped against the tiny sand-
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