538 
THROUGH ASIA 
funeral procession, marching to the doleful clang of the 
camels’ bells. 
The steeper faces were now turned towards the east and 
south-east. Evidently the north-west wind had prevailed 
in this quarter during the past few days. A good crisp 
breeze was cutting across from that direction even then. 
On its wings rode every now and again a few small tufts of 
some species of white vegetable down. Over one of the 
ridges rolled a handful of dry and withered thistles, closely 
matted together. Unfortunately these scant tokens of 
organic life were wafted thither by the north-west wind. 
In all probability they had travelled a route coincident or 
parallel with ours. 
Noon came, and I was near fainting from fatigue and 
thirst. The sun glowed like a furnace above my head. I 
was dead beat : I could not go another step. Then my 
friend the fly swung round to the other side of me and 
buzzed such a lively tune, that he roused me up. “Just a 
little bit further,” he buzzed in my ear. “Come, drag 
yourself on to the summit of the next dune. Tramp off 
another thousand paces, before you give in. You will be 
all the nearer to the Khotan-daria — all the nearer to the 
flood of fresh water which rolls down to Lop-nor — all the 
nearer to the dancing waves of the river which sinw a song- 
of life and spring, and of the spring of life.” I tramped off 
the thousand paces. Then I dropped on the top of a dune, 
rolled over on my back, and pulled my white cap over my 
face. O burning sun ! hasten, hasten westwards ; melt the 
icefields of the Father of the Ice Mountains ; give me but 
one cup of the cold crystal streams which pour from his 
steel-blue glaciers and foam down his mighty flanks ! 
I had walked eight miles. It was delightful to rest; and 
there was a stir of air on the dune top. I fell into a kind 
of torpor ; I forgot the gravity of our situation. I dreamt 
I was lying on a patch of cool emerald -green grass, 
underneath a leafy silver poplar, and a gentle breeze was 
whispering through its trembling leaves. I heard the wave- 
lets beating their melancholy cadences against the shore 
of a lake, which washed the very roots of the poplar. A 
