Explore "Fin Tireur" by Robert Hichens on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Two years ago I was travelling by diligence in the Sahara Desert on the / great caravan route, which starts from Beni-Mora and ends, they say, at / Tombouctou. For fourteen hours each day we were on the road, and each / evening about nine o'clock we stopped at a Bordj, or Travellers' House, / ate a hasty meal, threw ourselves down on our gaudy Arab rugs, and slept / heavily till the hour before dawn, drugged by fatigue, and by the / strong air of the desert. In the late afternoon of the third day of our / journeying we drove into a sandstorm. A great wind arose, carrying / with it innumerable multitudes of sand grains, which whirled about / the diligence and the struggling horses, blotting out the desert as / completely as a London fog blots out the street on a November day. / The cold became intense, and very soon I began to long for the next / halting-place.
"Where do we stop to-night? " I shouted to the French driver, who, with / his yellow toque pulled down over his ears, was chirping encouragement / to his horses.