The men seemed to feel they were worth seeing, for I noticed that several assumed a more martial tread as they felt their royal Joho cloth tugging at their necks, as it was swept streaming behind by the wind.  Maganga, a tall Mnyamwezi, stalked along like a very Goliah about to give battle alone, to Mirambo and his thousand warriors.  Frisky Khamisi paced on under his load, imitating a lion and there was the rude jester—­the incorrigible Ulimengo—­ with a stealthy pace like a cat.  But their silence could not last long.  Their, vanity was so much gratified, the red cloaks danced so incessantly before their eyes, that it would have been a wonder if they could have maintained such serious gravity or discontent one half hour longer.

Ulimengo was the first who broke it.  He had constituted himself the kirangozi or guide, and was the standard-bearer, bearing the American flag, which the men thought would certainly strike terror into the hearts of the enemy.  Growing confident first, then valorous, then exultant, he suddenly faced the army he was leading, and shouted

“Hoy!  Hoy ! 
Chorus.—­Hoy!  Hoy!

Hoy!  Hoy! 
Chorus.—­Hoy!  Hoy!

Hoy!  Hoy! 
Chorus.—­Hoy!  Hoy!

Where are ye going? 
Chorus.—­Going to war.

Against whom? 
Chorus.—­Against Mirambo.

Who is your master? 
Chorus.—­The White Man.

Ough!  Ough! 
Chorus.—­Ough!  Ough!

Hyah!  Hyah! 
Chorus.—­Hyah.  Hyah!”

This was the ridiculous song they kept up all day without intermission.

We camped the first day at Bomboma’s village, situated a mile to the south-west of the natural hill fortress of Zimbili.  Bombay was quite recovered from his thrashing, and had banished the sullen thoughts that had aroused my ire, and the men having behaved themselves so well, a five-gallon pot of pombe was brought to further nourish the valour, which they one and all thought they possessed.

The second day we arrived at Masangi.  I was visited soon afterwards by Soud, the son of Sayd bin Majid, who told me the Arabs were waiting for me; that they would not march from Mfuto until I had arrived.

Eastern Mfuto, after a six hours’ march, was reached on the third day from Unyanyembe.  Shaw gave in, laid down in the road, and declared he was dying.  This news was brought to me about 4 P.M. by one of the last stragglers.  I was bound to despatch men to carry him to me, into my camp, though every man was well tired after the long march.  A reward stimulated half-a-dozen to venture into the forest just at dusk to find Shaw, who was supposed to be at least three hours away from camp.

About two o’clock in the morning my men returned, having carried Shaw on their backs the entire distance.  I was roused up, and had him conveyed to my tent.  I examined him, and I assured myself he was not suffering from fever of any kind; and in reply to my inquiries as to how he felt, he said he could neither walk nor ride, that he felt such extreme weakness and lassitude that he was incapable of moving further.  After administering a glass of port wine to him in a bowlful of sago gruel, we both fell asleep.