Day was just breaking, so no move was made until an hour later. An officer came down, with the fatigue party, to unload the stores that she had brought down. When the horses were ashore, Gregory handed the pass to the officer, who was standing on the bank. He looked at it, with some surprise.
"Going to do some scouting," he muttered, and then called to a native officer, "Pass these two men beyond the outposts. They have an order from General Hunter."
"Will you be away long?" he asked Gregory, in Arabic.
"A week or more, my lord," the latter replied.
"Ah! I suppose you are going to Gakdul. As far as we have heard, there are no Dervishes there. Well, you must keep a sharp lookout. They may be in hiding anywhere about there, and your heads won't be worth much, if they lay hands on you."
"We intend to do so, sir;" and then, mounting, they rode on, the native officer walking beside them.
"You know the country, I suppose?" he said. "The Dervishes are bad, but I would rather fall into their hands than lose my way in the desert. The one is a musket ball or a quick chop with a knife, the other an agony for two or three days."
"I have been along the road before," Zaki said. "There is no fear of my losing my way; and, even if I did so, I could travel by the stars."
"I wish we were all moving," the native said. "It is dull work staying here, month after month."
As soon as they were beyond the lines, they thanked the officer and went off, at a pace native horses are capable of keeping up for hours.