It Was Wafted On The Hot Morning Air Across The Valley, Echoed Again By The Rocks And Hills Above Us, And Was The Most Dreadful Sound I Think I Ever Heard; It Was No Doubt A Death-Wail.

From their camp up in the rocks, the chanters descended to the lower ground, and seemed to be performing a funereal march all round the central mass, as the last tones we heard were from behind the hills, where it first arose.

To resume: we left the almost exhausted channel of the Ferdinand, and pushed on for the Telegraph Line. In the sandhills and scrub we came upon an open bit of country, in latitude 27 degrees 35' 34", and found a shallow well, at which we encamped on the evening of August 11th. In sixty miles farther, going nearly east by north, the nature of the country entirely altered; the scrubs fell off, and an open stony country, having low, flat-topped ridges or table-lands, succeeded. This was a sure indication of our near approach to the Telegraph Line, as it is through a region of that kind, that the line runs in this latitude. I turned more northerly for a waterhole in the Alberga, called Appatinna, but we found it quite dry. There were two decrepit old native women, probably left there to starve and die by their tribe. I gave them some food and water, but they were almost too far gone to eat. From thence, travelling south-easterly, we came upon the Neale's River, in forty miles.

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