The water--what there was of it in the holes and swampy places--stank, and tasted acrid.

The flies seemed to greet us as their only prospect of food that year.

The monotony of hurrying through grass-stems that cut off all view and only showed the sky through a waving curtain overhead was more nerve-trying than the physical weariness and thirst.
We slept a night in that grass, burning some of it for a smudge to keep mosquitoes at bay, and an hour after dawn, reaching rising ground again, realized that we had our quarry within reach at last.
They were out in the open on short good grazing.

The Greeks' tent was pitched.

We could see their mules, like brown insects, tied under a tree, and the cattle dotted here and there, some lying down, some feeding.
"At last!" said Brown.