teen days distant. Gangs of melancholy coolies, squads of soldiers, busy camp officials, mounted orderlies, stray postmen and telegraph messengers and chaprassies, pervade the scene. In a bye-road pleasantly shaded with trees, you see a couple of horsemen whom nobody appears to notice. The fore-most is quietly dressed in dark tweed, with a grey cloth cap. Only at the moment of passing do you suddenly perceive the face bronzed and reddened by long exposure, the heavy moustache, the cold stern eyes, and realise in a flash that it is Lord Kitchener,
On past the interminable tents, moving ever northward. Surely you must be near the verge of the camp now ? You seem to have been riding for hours. At last you emerge upon a wide bare plain. You think: "At any rate I have ridden all along one side of the place." Then a convenient notice board informs you that this particular tract — it looks like a couple of ten acre fields thrown into one — is reserved for the accommodation of the Royal Field Artillery, and you grow a little dubious about the extent of your achievement. An affable stranger passes, and you enquire if you are anywhere near the Amphitheatre. You fancy it should be hard by, but it seems to have coyly concealed itself. He points towards the north-west, and says : — "You see that village over there?"
You select a village so far away that the houses are only indistinctly visible, and ask if that is the one.
"No, not that one. Farther on to the right, where there is a line of white wall on a hillock."
