The accounts of Ramadan (who was desired by me to take notes as he went in the forest) were discouraging, and made me glad I did not go.  At one part, where the tortuous river was flooded, they were five hours in the water, and a man in a small canoe went before them sounding for places not too deep for them, breast and chin deep, and Hassani fell and hurt himself sorely in a hole.  The people have goats and sheep, and love them as they do children.

[Fairly baffled by the difficulties in his way, and sorely troubled by the demoralised state of his men, who appear not to have been proof against the contaminating presence of the Arabs, the Doctor turns back at this point.]

6th July, 1870.—­Back to Mamohela, and welcomed by the Arabs, who all approved of my turning back.  Katomba presented abundant provisions for all the way to Bambarre.  Before we reached this, Mohamad made a forced march, and Moene-mokaia’s people came out drunk:  the Arabs assaulted them, and they ran off.

23rd July, 1870.—­The sores on my feet now laid me up as irritable-eating ulcers.  If the foot were put to the ground, a discharge of bloody ichor flowed, and the same discharge happened every night with considerable pain, that prevented sleep:  the wailing of the slaves tortured with these sores is one of the night sounds of a slave-camp:  they eat through everything—­muscle, tendon, and bone, and often lame permanently if they do not kill the poor things.  Medicines have very little effect on such wounds:  their periodicity seems to say that they are allied to fever.  The Arabs make a salve of bees’-wax and sulphate of copper, and this applied hot, and held on by a bandage affords support, but the necessity of letting the ichor escape renders it a painful remedy:  I had three ulcers, and no medicine.  The native plan of support by means of a stiff leaf or bit of calabash was too irritating, and so they continued to eat in and enlarge in spite of everything:  the vicinity was hot, and the pain increased with the size of the wound.

2nd August, 1870.—­An eclipse at midnight:  the Moslems called loudly on Moses.  Very cold.

On 17th August, 1870, Monanyembe, the chief who was punished by Mohamad Bogharib, lately came bringing two goats; one he gave to Mohamad, the other to Moenekuss’ son, acknowledging that he had killed his elder brother:  he had killed eleven persons over at Linamo in our absence, in addition to those killed in villages on our S.E. when we were away.  It transpired that Kandahara, brother of old Moenekuss, whose village is near this, killed three women and a child, and that a trading man came over from Kasangangaye, and was murdered too, for no reason but to eat his body.  Mohamad ordered old Kandahara to bring ten goats and take them over to Kasangangaye to pay for the murdered man.  When they tell of each other’s deeds they disclose a horrid state of bloodthirsty callousness.  The