down on the dead grass and sleep and sleep and sleep. I urged my
muscles to swing my legs--for I knew if once I sat down to rest I
should never keep awake.

It was while I was thus trying to jerk my sleepy nerves on to action
that I came upon a zigzagged trench. It was fully six feet deep and
about a yard wide. It was of course an old Turkish defence running
crosswise along the great backbone of the Sirt. I knew now that I was
nearing the bay, for most of these trenches overlooked the beach.

There was a white object about ten yards from me. What it was I could
not tell, and a quiver of fear ran through me and threw off the awful
sleepiness of fatigue.

Was it a Turkish sniper's shirt? Or was it a piece of white cloth, or
a sheet of paper? In the gloom of night I could not discover.

However, I determined to go steady, and I crept up to a dark thorn-
bush and stood still.It did not move. Still standing against the dark
bush to hide the fact that I was unarmed, I shouted--

"Halt! who are you?" in as gruff and threatening a tone as I could
command.

Silence. It did not move. I ran forward along the trench and there
found a white pack-mule all loaded up with baggage; I could make out
the queerly worked trappings, with brass-coins on the fringed bridle
and coloured fly-tassels over the eyes. It was stone dead and stiff.
Its eyes glared at me--a glassy glare full of fear. The Turkish pack-
mule had been bringing up material to the Turks in the trench when it