He wore a conical cap of black Astrakhan fur,
great baggy trousers of blue, bright red leather boots, a light tunic
of chintz, and over that a flowing cloak.
They went out through the gates of Bushire on to the great plain of
burning sand that stretched away for ninety miles ahead of them. They
travelled by night, because the day was intolerably hot, but even at
midnight the heat was over 100 degrees. It was a fine moonlight night;
the stars sparkled over the plain. The bells tinkled on the mules'
necks as they walked across the sand. All else was silent.
At last dawn broke. Martyn pitched his little tent under a tree,
the only shelter he could get. Gradually the heat grew more and more
intense. He was already so ill that it was difficult to travel.
"When the thermometer was above 112 degrees--fever heat," says Martyn,
"I began to lose my strength fast. It became intolerable. I wrapped
myself up in a blanket and all the covering I could get to defend
myself from the air. By this means the moisture was kept a little
longer upon the body. I thought I should have lost my senses. The
thermometer at last stood at 126 degrees. I concluded that death was
inevitable."
At last the sun went down: the thermometer crept lower: it was night
and time to start again.
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