only to discover that it was a totally different ridge. Now, after reflection and argument, we saw our exact mistake, and made for what was obviously the real ridge—with the same result.
We were lost in the desert!
CHAPTER IV
THE DEATH WIND
“The fact is,” said Higgs presently, speaking with the air of an oracle, “the fact is that all these accursed sand-hills are as like each other as mummy beads on the same necklace, and therefore it is very difficult to know them apart. Give me that water-bottle, Adams; I am as dry as a lime-kiln.”
“No,” I said shortly; “you may be drier before the end.”
“What do you mean? Oh! I see; but that’s nonsense; those Zeus will hunt us up, or, at the worst, we have only to wait till the sun gets out.”
As he spoke, suddenly the air became filled with a curious singing sound impossible to describe, caused as I knew, who had often heard it before, by millions and millions of particles of sand being rubbed together. We turned to see whence it came, and perceived, far away, rushing towards us with extraordinary swiftness, a huge and dense cloud preceded by isolated columns and funnels of similar clouds.
“A sand-storm,” said Higgs, his florid face paling a little. “Bad luck for us! That’s what comes of getting out of bed the wrong side first this morning. No, it’s your fault, Adams; you helped me to salt last night, in spite of my remonstrances” (the Professor has sundry little superstitions of this sort, particularly absurd in so learned a man). “Well, what shall we do? Get under the lee of the hill until it blows over?”
“Don’t suppose it will blow over. Can’t see anything to do except say our prayers,” remarked Orme with sweet resignation. Oliver is, I think, the coolest hand in an emergency of any one I ever met, except, perhaps, Sergeant Quick, a man, of course, nearly old enough to be his father. “The game seems to be pretty well up,” he added. “Well, you have killed two lions, Higgs, and that is something.”
“Oh, hang it! You can die if you like, Oliver. The world won’t miss you; but think of its loss if anything happened to me. I don’t intend to be wiped out by a beastly sand-storm. I intend to live to write a book on Mur,” and Higgs shook his fist at the advancing clouds with an air that was really noble. It reminded me of Ajax defying the lightning.
Meanwhile I had been reflecting.
“Listen,” I said. “Our only chance is to stop where we are, for if we move we shall certainly be buried alive. Look; there is something solid to lie on,” and I pointed to a ridge of rock, a kind of core of congealed sand, from which the surface had been swept by gales. “Down with you, quick,” I went on, “and let’s draw that lion-skin over our heads. It may help to keep the dust from choking us. Hurry, men; it’s coming!”
Coming, it was indeed, with a mighty, wailing roar. Scarcely had we got ourselves into position, our backs to the blast and our mouths and noses buried after the fashion of camels in a similar predicament, the lion-skin covering our heads and bodies to the middle, with the paws tucked securely beneath us to prevent it from being blown away, when the storm leaped upon us furiously, bringing darkness in its train. There we lay for hour after hour, unable to see, unable to talk because of the roaring noise about us, and only from time to time lifting ourselves a little upon our hands and knees to disturb the weight of sand that accumulated on our bodies, lest it should encase us in a living tomb.
Dreadful were the miseries we suffered—the misery of the heat beneath the stinking pelt of the lion, the misery of the dust-laden air that choked us almost to suffocation, the misery of thirst, for we could not get at our scanty supply of water to drink. But worst of all perhaps, was the pain caused by the continual friction of the sharp sand driven along at hurricane speed, which, incredible as it may seem, finally wore holes in our thin clothing and filed our skins to rawness.
“No wonder the Egyptian monuments get such a beautiful shine on them,” I heard poor Higgs muttering in my ear again and again, for he was growing light-headed; “no wonder, no wonder! My shin-bones will be very useful to polish Quick’s tall riding-boots. Oh! curse the lions. Why did you help me to salt, you old ass; why did you help me to salt? It’s pickling me behind.”
Then he became quite incoherent, and only groaned from time to time.
Perhaps, however, this suffering did us a service, since otherwise exhaustion, thirst, and dust might have overwhelmed our senses, and caused us to fall into a sleep from which we never should have awakened. Yet at the time we were not grateful to it, for at last the agony became almost unbearable. Indeed, Orme told me afterwards that the last thing he could remember was a quaint fancy that he had made a colossal fortune by selling the secret of a new torture to the Chinese—that of hot sand driven on to the victim by a continuous blast of hot air.
After a while we lost count of time, nor was it until later that we learned that the storm endured for full twenty hours, during the latter part of which, notwithstanding our manifold sufferings, we must have become more or less insensible. At any rate, at one moment I remembered the awful roar and the stinging of the sand whips, followed by a kind of vision of the face of my son—that beloved, long-lost son whom I had sought for so many years, and for whose sake I endured all these things. Then, without any interval, as it were, I felt my limbs being scorched as though by hot irons or through a burning-glass, and with a fearful effort staggered up to find that the storm had passed, and that the furious sun was blistering my excoriated skin. Rubbing the caked dirt from my eyes, I looked down to see two mounds like those of graves, out of which projected legs that had been white. Just then one pair of legs, the longer pair, stirred, the sand heaved up convulsively, and, uttering wandering words in a choky voice, there arose the figure of Oliver Orme.
For a moment we stood and stared at each other, and strange spectacles we were.
“Is he dead?” muttered Orme, pointing to the still buried Higgs.
“Fear so,” I answered, “but we’ll look;” and painfully we began to disinter him.
When we came to it beneath the lion-skin, the Professor’s face was black and hideous to see, but, to our relief, we perceived that he was not dead, for he moved his hand and moaned. Orme looked at me.
“Water would save him,” I said.
Then came the anxious moment. One of our water-bottles was emptied before the storm began, but the other, a large, patent flask covered with felt, and having a screw vulcanite top, should still contain a good quantity, perhaps three quarts—that is, if the fluid had not evaporated in the dreadful heat. If this had happened, it meant that Higgs would die, and unless help came, that soon we should follow him. Orme unscrewed the flask, for my hands refused that office, and used his teeth to draw the cork, which, providentially enough the thoughtful Quick had set in the neck beneath the screw. Some of the water, which, although it was quite hot, had not evaporated, thank God! flew against his parched lips, and I saw him bite them till the blood came in the fierceness of the temptation to assuage his raging thirst. But he resisted it like the man he is, and, without drinking a drop, handed me the bottle, saying simply:
“You
