August 23rd.—­We have passed a very anxious day in the valley of Kwihara.  Our eyes were constantly directed towards unfortunate Tabora.  It has been said that three tembes only have stood the brunt of the attack.  Abid bin Suliman’s house has been destroyed, and over two hundred tusks of ivory that belonged to him have become the property of the African Bonaparte.  My tembe is in as efficient a state of defence as its style and means of defence will allow.  Rifle-pits surround the house outside, and all native huts that obstructed the view have been torn down, and all trees and shrubs which might serve as a shelter for any one of the enemy have been cut.  Provisions and water enough for six days have been brought.  I have ammunition enough to last two weeks.  The walls are three feet thick, and there are apartments within apartments, so that a desperate body of men could fight until the last room had been taken.

The Arabs, my neighbours, endeavour to seem brave, but it is evident they are about despairing; I have heard it rumoured that the Arabs of Kwihara, if Tabora is taken, will start en masse for the coast, and give the country up to Mirambo.  If such are their intentions, and they are really carried into effect, I shall be in a pretty mess.  However, if they do leave me, Mirambo will not reap any benefit from my stores, nor from Livingstone’s either, for I shall burn the whole house, and everything in it.

August 24th.—­The American flag is still waving above my house, and the Arabs are still in Unyanyembe.

About 10 A.M., a messenger came from Tabora, asking us if we were not going to assist them against Mirambo.  I felt very much like going out to help them; but after debating long upon the pros and cons of it,—­asking myself, Was it prudent?  Ought I to go?  What will become of the people if I were killed?  Will they not desert me again?  What was the fate of Khamis bin Abdullah?—­I sent word that I would not go; that they ought to feel perfectly at home in their tembes against such a force as Mirambo had, that I should be glad if they could induce him to come to Kwihara, in which case I would try and pick him off.

They say that Mirambo, and his principal officer, carry umbrellas over their heads, that he himself has long hair like a Mnyamwezi pagazi, and a beard.  If he comes, all the men carrying umbrellas will have bullets rained on them in the hope that one lucky bullet may hit him.  According to popular ideas, I should make a silver bullet, but I have no silver with me.  I might make a gold one.

About, noon I went over to see Sheikh bin Nasib, leaving about 100 men inside the house to guard it while I was absent.  This old fellow is quite a philosopher in his way.  I should call him a professor of minor philosophy.  He is generally so sententious—­ fond of aphorisms, and a very deliberate character.  I was astonished to find him so despairing.  His aphorisms have deserted him, his philosophy has not been able to stand against disaster.  He listened to me, more like a moribund, than one possessing all the means of defence and offence.