In the beginning of April, the bleeding from the bowels, from which he had been suffering, became more copious, and his weakness was pitiful; still he longed for strength to finish his work.  Even yet the old passion for natural history was strong; the aqueous plants that abounded everywhere, the caterpillars that after eating the plants ate one another, and were such clumsy swimmers; the fish with the hook-shaped lower jaw that enabled them to feed as they skimmed past the plants; the morning summons of the cocks and turtle-doves; the weird scream of the fish eagle—­all engaged his interest.  Observations continued to be taken, and the Sunday services were always held.

But on the 21st April a change occurred.  In a shaky hand he wrote:  “Tried to ride, but was forced to lie down, and they carried me back to vil. exhausted.”  A kitanda or palanquin had to be made for carrying him.  It was sorry work, for his pains were excruciating and his weakness excessive.  On the 27th April[77] he was apparently at the lowest ebb, and wrote in his Journal the last words he ever penned—­“Knocked up quite, and remain == recover sent to buy milch goats.  We are on the banks of R. Molilamo.”

[Footnote 77:  This was the eleventh anniversary of his wife’s death.]

The word “recover” seems to show that he had no presentiment of death, but cherished the hope of recovery; and Mr. Waller has pointed out, from his own sad observation of numerous cases in connection with the Universities Mission, that malarial poisoning is usually unattended with the apprehension of death, and that in none of these instances, any more than in the case of Livingstone, were there any such messages, or instructions, or expressions of trust and hope as are usual on the part of Christian men when death is near.

The 29th of April was the last day of his travels.  In the morning he directed Susi to take down the side of the hut that the kitanda might be brought along, as the door would not admit it, and he was quite unable to walk to it.  Then came the crossing of a river; then progress through swamps and plashes; and when they got to anything like a dry plain, he would ever and anon beg of them to lay him down.  At last they got him to Chitambo’s village, in Ilala, where they had to put him under the eaves of a house during a drizzling rain, until the hut they were building should be got ready.

Then they laid him on a rough bed in the hut, where he spent the night.  Next day he lay undisturbed.  He asked a few wandering questions about the country—­especially about the Luapula.  His people knew that the end could not be far off.  Nothing occurred to attract notice during the early part of the night, but at four in the morning, the boy who lay at his door called in alarm for Susi, fearing that their master was dead.  By the candle still burning they saw him, not in bed, but kneeling at the bedside with his head buried in his hands upon the pillow.  The sad yet not unexpected