Further down the creek, some six and a half miles from the hills, is a fine flat of grass and herbage surrounded by large white gums—­this is practically the end of the creek, and to this spot we shifted camp, packing water from the pool.  On the 10th Prempeh died—­another victim to the poison—­and I began to dread the morning.  Fortunately our new camp was free from poison, and no more deaths occurred.  It was sad to think of our camels dying thus after so many hundred miles of desert bravely traversed—­yesterday a picture of strength and life, to-day food for those scavengers of the bush, the dingoes.  What satisfied howls they gave forth all night long; for, like crows or vultures, they seem to collect from far and wide round the body of any dead thing.  From our camp Mount Erskine was visible, but not of sufficiently inviting appearance to make a visit worth while.

On the 15th all were off the sick list and ready to march.  I felt sorrowful indeed at the loss of the camels, but thankful that no more had died, and more thankful still that we had been able to camp whilst poor Breaden and Charlie regained their health.  Such a sickness in the heart of the desert could have had but one ending.

Our way lay over spinifex plains until just north of the hills a sand-ridge was crossed, remarkable from its regular shape and wonderfully straight course, as if it had been built to most careful measurements and alignment.

The 16th of November was a red-letter day, for on it we crossed the last sand-ridge—­in lat. 19 degrees 20 minutes—­leaving the desert behind us.  A feeling of satisfaction filled us that we had conquered its difficulties not by chance, but by unremitting toil and patience.  I am sure that each in his heart thanked his God that He had been pleased to bring us through safely.  Once across the range we had seen from Mount Bannerman—­a range of quartzite hills which I named Cummins Range, after the Warden at Hall’s Creek—­and we had reached the watershed of the tributaries of the Margaret and Fitzroy Rivers.  From Cummins Range onward until we struck the Margaret, we had very rough hills and rocks to cross—­this hard travelling after the yielding sand was most painful to the camels, and their feet were soon sore and cut by the sharp edges of rock.  The country may be roughly described as slate bedded on edge, in such a way as to leave sharp corners and points of rock sticking up in all directions.  Through the slate run veins of quartz, often rising above the surface in huge blows, hills, and even small ranges.  Innumerable gullies crossed our path, and occasionally fair-sized creeks.  Such a one is Christmas Creek, which, where we saw it, is made up of three creeks from fifty to eighty yards across, running almost parallel and not more than half a mile apart.  These soon meet and form a fine creek which joins the Fitzroy many miles to the Westward.  These creeks are fringed with gums, Bauhinia, and Leichardt trees, all affording splendid shade—­and following the banks on either side is a belt of high grass and shrubs, from which occasional kangaroos and wallabies bounded, alarmed by the sound of our advancing caravan.