That any one could steal the last morsel from a woman and her children surpasses belief, but yet it was plain that there was at least one man in the party who could do it.

No one can fully understand or describe such scenes as this unless he has looked into just such hungry looking, haggard eyes and faces, a mixture of determination and despair, the human expression almost vanishing, and the face of a starving wolf or jackal taking its place, There are no words to paint such a state of things to him who has never seen and known.
But there were true men, true, charitable hearts in that little band.
Though death stared them in the face they never forgot their fellow men.
As they slowly crawled along many would wander here and there beside the trail and fall behind, especially the weaker ones, and many were the predictions that such and such a one would never come up again, or reach the camp.

Then it was that these noble souls, tired almost beyond recovery themselves, would take water and go back to seek the wandering ones and give them drink and help them on.

More than one would thus have perished in the sands but for the little canteen of water carried back by some friend.

Only a swallow or two would often revive their failing strength and courage, and with slow step they would move on again.