A BED IN THE SAND 95 



spot on our body-politic, of this — to change 

 the metaphor — roaring malestrom-mill into 

 the hopper of which so large a proportion of 

 the youth of our country is flung? 



But in the nights that are coming, — when the 

 rock-python pursues the coney along the 

 shattered pediments of the " Corner House," 

 the unchanging desert will lie, still void under 

 the abiding scrutiny of the stars. Bushman- 

 land can never alter. 



The fire dimmed and died. One by one my 

 companions sank into slumber. The horses 

 were resting, — except unquiet Bucephalus, 

 who stamped and whinnied at intervals. The 

 oxen lay tethered to their yokes. Ever and 

 anon one of them uttered the deep, pathetic 

 bovine sigh, — that suspiration which seems to 

 express perplexed resignation to the selfish 

 dominance of man, — to that hopeless slavery 

 which is the doom of the once-lordly bovine 

 race. 



I seized my kaross and climbed the steep 

 side of the nearest dune-tentacle. Then I 

 laboured along its soft, sinuous surface to- 

 wards the gross, inert body of Typhon, until 

 far beyond the reach of camp-sounds. In the 

 yielding sand I made a lair. In this I laid me 

 down — apparently the only waking thing in 



