One of the Suez Canal Company's tugs soon took us down the canal from Ismailia to El Kantara (the bridge), where we were to meet our caravan. Just as we were landing we observed the first few horses of the latter crossing by the ferry which plies between the two sides of the canal. The boat had to go over three times to get all our animals and luggage, and we found it no easy work on the other side to strap up all our things ready for the journey. Matters seldom go altogether smoothly on the first day of a caravan expedition. At length a start was made, the mules laden with our tents and luggage going on in front, and ourselves bringing up the rear. The little hotel of El Kantara, with the few patches of vegetation surrounding it, was the last sight we had of civilised life. Following the telegraph posts, which mark the route from Egypt to Syria, we then entered the rolling desert, and soon began to enjoy that feeling of freedom which a boundless plain always inspires. Only life on the sea, with all its wonderful charms, is to be compared to a journey through the desert. In the midst of its vast and solitary expanse the traveller feels himself overwhelmed, and his imagination conjures up strange forms on the far horizon. The desert is to the Arab what the sea is to the sailor; for both, their proper element has a permanent and irresistible attraction. Old Abou Nabout, the leader of our caravan, rode on quietly in front, his eyes gazing steadfastly across the sandy plain, and dreams of his youth doubtless floated through his mind as his horse threw up clouds of sand with his hoofs.