White horses reared and plunged.

A wind sang through the grass and thistles of the dunes, driving the sand into my face.
Rashid, who had been riding far behind, in conversation with our muleteer, came tearing up, and I could hear the shouts of the mukari urging his two beasts to hurry.
'There is a village on the headland over there--a village of Circassian settlers,' cried my servant, breathless.

'It has a bad name, and I had not thought to spend the night there.

But any roof is good in such a storm.

Ride fast! We may arrive before the downpour.' My horse had broken to a canter of his own accord.