"See that small rocky island in the little lake? Why couldn't I take my rifle and splash a bullet in that water?"
"I fancy you could—if the water were there. Many a poor beggar has gone to his death trying to splash his canteen in mirage-water."
"Tell me about them."
Lyttleton settled deep into his wicker chair; he loved the desert, and loved to talk of it. "These Ababdeh Arabs know every foot of Nubia. They have regular routes, uncharted, like the course of a vessel at sea; yet they travel almost infallibly from well to well. Of course, if they veer to right or left and miss a well, their nerves go to fiddle-strings; they die and shrivel up. Well-known landmarks become invisible, distorted or unrecognizable. Sometimes the ghost of a familiar rock or tree will confront the famished beggar from a totally different direction, and lure him to the Belly of Stones. The main caravan routes are marked by bleaching bones, like bricks strewn along a garden walk."
"What sort of a country is it out yonder—behind that ridge?" The Colonel pointed to the empty west.
"No end of sand and sky; a few roving Arabs, goatherds, outlaws, religious fanatics, unpleasant people—yet oh, well, one never gets bored."
