There was only one process which could be depended on, and it was to get down and lift his rear around until his head pointed in the right direction, or take him under your arm and carry him to a part of the road which he could not get out of without climbing.
The sun flamed down as hot as a furnace, and neck-scarfs, veils and umbrellas seemed hardly any protection; they served only to make the long procession look more than ever fantastic--for be it known the ladies were all riding astride because they could not stay on the shapeless saddles sidewise, the men were perspiring and out of temper, their feet were banging against the rocks, the donkeys were capering in every direction but the right one and being belabored with clubs for it, and every now and then a broad umbrella would suddenly go down out of the cavalcade, announcing to all that one more pilgrim had bitten the dust.

It was a wilder picture than those solitudes had seen for many a day.

No donkeys ever existed that were as hard to navigate as these, I think, or that had so many vile, exasperating instincts.

Occasionally we grew so tired and breathless with fighting them that we had to desist,--and immediately the donkey would come down to a deliberate walk.

This, with the fatigue, and the sun, would put a man asleep; and soon as the man was asleep, the donkey would lie down.