“They were sweet and sad moments, those of parting.  What a long, long, and true friendship was here sundered!  Through what strange vicissitudes of life had they not followed me!  What wild and varied scenes had we not seen together!  What a noble fidelity these untutored souls had exhibited!  The chiefs were those who had followed me to Ujiji in 1871; they had been witnesses of the joy of Livingstone at the sight of me; they were the men to whom I intrusted the safe-guard of Livingstone on his last and fatal journey, who had mourned by his corpse at Muilala, and borne the illustrious dead to the Indian Ocean.

“And in a flood of sudden recollection, all the stormy period here ended rushed in upon my mind; the whole panorama of danger and tempest through which these gallant fellows had so stanchly stood by me—­these gallant fellows now parting from me.  Rapidly, as in some apocalyptic vision, every scene of strife with Man and Nature, through which these poor men and women had borne me company, and solaced me by the simple sympathy of common suffering, came hurrying across my memory; for each face before me was associated with some adventure or some peril, reminded me of some triumph or of some loss.  What a wild, weird retrospect it was,—­that mind’s flash over the troubled past! so like a troublous dream!

“And for years and years to come, in many homes in Zanzibar, there will be told the great story of our journey, and the actors in it will be heroes among their kilt and kin.  For me too they are heroes, these poor, ignorant children of Africa, for, from the first deadly struggle in savage Ituru to the last staggering rush into Embomma, they had rallied to my voice like veterans, and in the hour of need they had never failed me.  And thus, aided by their willing hands and by their loyal hearts, the expedition had been successful, and the three great problems of the Dark Continent’s geography had been fairly settled."[95]

How many times we have read this marvellous narrative of Stanley’s march through the Dark Continent, we do not know; but we do know that every time we have read it with tears and emotion, have blessed the noble Stanley, and thanked God for the grand character of his black followers!  There is no romance equal to these two volumes.  The trip was one awful tragedy from beginning to end, and the immortal deeds of his untutored guards are worthy of the famous Light Brigade.

On the fourth day of August, 1877, Henry M. Stanley arrived at the village of Nsanda on his way to the ocean.  He had in his command one hundred and fifteen souls.  Foot-sore, travel-soiled, and hungry, his people sank down exhausted.  He tried to buy food from the natives; but they, with an indifference that was painful, told them to wait until market-day.  A foraging party scoured the district for food, but found none.  Starvation was imminent.  The feeble travellers lay upon the ground in the camp,