WESTWARDS 301 



are worked in a desultory fashion by the Arabs. The 

 salt is good. Wide seams of white crystals run through 

 coarse brown rock a few feet from the surface. There 

 is also here a large fossilised forest, but so much wood 

 in that state lies about this desert that it is barely worth 

 mention. 



I had my sports on a level bit of sand next day. 

 Riding, wrestling, running, &c., and after two nights' 

 halt started westwards again. 



My first reason for going in that direction — it was 

 unknown desert — was that I hoped to cut across the 

 tracks of smugglers of arms, if such existed, as they 

 were supposed to do. My second to investigate the 

 truth of a fable. The fable was this. A Kababish 

 lost a camel in this desert, and followed and found it. 

 It was in an oasis, in the centre of which was a lake, 

 and round which were trees, gazelle of many sorts, 

 and deserted houses (see Rolph's descriptions of Kufra, 

 &c.). Charmed with the place, and determined to 

 occupy it with his family, the Arab collected a number 

 of palm branches and started homewards, dropping a 

 branch at intervals to mark the way back. He slept at 

 night, and woke to find all the branches he had dropped 

 piled at his head, and not a footprint about to betray 

 who had done so. 



