aeroplane had been making a long reconnaissance in another direction during the morning, and had ended up late in the afternoon over Talmur, which had come to be regarded as only a perfunctory flight, orders being merely to see that the flag was flying over the Consulate. On this particular afternoon, however, the observer had been startled out of his usual unconcern to see that the flag was not flying. Closer observation showed that the flag-staff was broken off halfway down, and that the flag had disappeared save for a few torn shreds on the ground at its foot. Round about the Consulate, which stood by itself in a large compound surrounded by a mud wall, there was no sign of life. Considerably alarmed, observer and pilot prepared to descend, when something suddenly went wrong with the engine; and after manœuvring for some time, the pilot finally declared that he could not get the machine down with any hope of getting it up again. Shortage of petrol after their long day's flight also

threatened them, and no alternative was left but to return home and report. The aeroplane had only been brought down with great difficulty and considerable damage on reaching its own landing-ground, and it would be unserviceable for several days to come. As it happened, there was no other aeroplane available, both the others stationed there having been sent out on a week's reconnaissance to the south. The news brought back by the pilot and observer from Talmur was sufficiently alarming; but while it was being debated what action should be taken, a fresh cause for alarm occurred. Talmur was a fertile plateau, where grew all manner of English vegetables which were unobtainable on the sandy plain of Larzan, and occasionally the Political Officer sent in a basketful of them by the dâk runners, who came in once a week with His Majesty's mails. Donkin, the officer whose duty it was to open the mail-bags, had gone on leave a few days previously; and his successor, a man new to the division, was considerably alarmed, knowing the pilot's report from Talmur, when the dâk runner arrived minus the mail-bag, but with a basket of vegetables, among which, half hidden, was the torn cover of a magazine bearing the words, "When may we expect you?" followed by the Political Officer's initials scrawled across it. Surely this was a cry for help. This torn scrap

of paper must have been all they were able to get hold of, or it might have been resorted to as safer than an official despatch, or perhaps they were so closely watched that this was their only chance of getting news through. They were eighty miles away, absolutely isolated, and the Hinzai were notorious for their turbulence and treachery. The General decided that a column must march to their relief at dawn.

Till midnight Bransome was busy with his preparations. His own personal ones were quickly made, but over his men and horses he fussed around for hours. And yet fussed is not the right word, for Bransome was above all things methodical and unhurried. But this was his first expedition on his own in Mespot, and excitement was reasonable. Besides his own company, a company of native infantry and a couple of guns had been ordered on the march, the whole under the command of a Major of infantry. The journey would take them five days at the least. Road there was none. A rough track across the desert was all that offered, and made heavy going. Motors, with all their modern mechanism, were helpless in face of it. Unfortunately there was no moon, and, owing to fear of ambush, orders were "No moon, no marching," so that they could not take advantage of the coolness of the night. Five blazing hot days in the open lay ahead of them.

Long before dawn Bransome was astir, and his men were the first on the parade-ground whence the start was to be made. They were his own particular company, and almost as keen as himself on the expedition ahead of them, though they well knew the discomforts it entailed. Forced marching across the desert in July is anything but a joy-ride, and to fall out by the way miles from anywhere has no attraction. None but the fittest could hope to stand it, and Bransome looked anxiously at his men, as they waited for the order to start, devoutly hoping that he would have no casualties to report en route.

Then the long march began. The first hour was almost exhilarating. There is a freshness in the air in that first hour about the dawn in Mespot, the last remnant of the cool night, that gives no inkling of the terror that shall walk by day. The horses were fresh, and seemed to sense that this was no ordinary parade. The men were eager as to what lay ahead. The dull monotony of daily routine for a time was broken. That first hour of the march was full of life and interest. How often in the hours to come it was looked back upon with astonishment and envy. For never again did that little company, even as it drew near its goal, quite recapture that first hour's enthusiasm and exhilaration.

For three hours, with intervals, they marched that

some watched his men and horses grow more weary, more damp with sweat, more listless, more slow-moving. It was only nearing seven o'clock as the last hour's march drew to a close, yet the sun was ablaze as if it had been midday. Not yet risen high in the sky, it seemed to strike right under the topi straight into the eyes, relentless, unwinking. If only for one moment it would veil itself! If only for one moment one might find shade! Even Bransome for all his fitness was feeling it. "Like as the hart desireth the waterbrooks," that hackneyed phrase from the Psalms that he had heard so often, carelessly not even dimly comprehending, in the old church at home and in school chapel, came back to him now, and reiterated itself in a dull stupid way in his brain to the thud of his horse's hoofs in the sand. How little he had understood it. How thoroughly and completely he understood it now. And then, in the midst of the heat and discomfort, the humour of it struck him, and he laughed aloud. There were hundreds and thousands of people singing that verse, perhaps singing it at that very moment, as indifferently, as little comprehendingly as he had done, safe and comfortable in their English houses, with the water laid on in taps or near-by in a deep cool well. Never in all their calm, luxurious, uneventful lives would they have cause

real thirst meant. How little could they understand the agony of desire of the hart for the water-brook? How in the same way, it suddenly occurred to him, could they, buried deep in their English customs and conventions, understand the problems of the East Yet it was these same people, who were singing so uncomprehendingly about the hart and the water-brooks, who were at this very moment dictating our Eastern policy. It was because of them that he was here experiencing discomforts that would never enter into their comfortable lives. It was because of them that he was out in Mespot, helping to occupy this vast land of sojourning and force upon it Western ideas of law and order that it had never known and did not want. How could those homekeeping, only mildly interested people, singing placidly in happy England, really know anything of the conditions and needs of Mespot? It was all too deep for him. The heat was too appalling, and his head nodded as he rode.

And then suddenly, under the blazing Eastern sun, and in the midst of the dust of the desert that almost blinded and choked him, he was back again in England. He was passing through the old stone-pillared gateway that he had always known, the same yet surely more beautiful than he had ever realised. The herbaceous border along border along the greystone