The men were all in their places except Bombay.  Bombay had gone; he could not be found.  I despatched a man to hunt him up.  He was found weeping in the arms of his Delilah.

“Why did you go away, Bombay, when you knew I intended to go, and was waiting?”

“Oh, master, I was saying good-bye to my missis.”

" Oh, indeed?”

“Yes, master; you no do it, when you go away?

“Silence, sir.”

“Oh! all right.”

“What is the matter with you, Bombay?”

“Oh, nuffin.”

As I saw he was in a humour to pick a quarrel with me before those Arabs who had congregated outside of my tembe to witness my departure; and as I was not in a humour to be balked by anything that might turn up, the consequence was, that I was obliged to thrash Bombay, an operation which soon cooled his hot choler, but brought down on my head a loud chorus of remonstrances from my pretended Arab friends—­ “Now, master, don’t, don’t—­stop it, master:  the poor man knows better than you what he and you may expect on the road you are now taking.”

If anything was better calculated to put me in a rage than Bombay’s insolence before a crowd it was this gratuitous interference with what I considered my own especial business; but I restrained myself, though I told them, in a loud voice, that I did not choose to be interfered with, unless they wished to quarrel with me.

“No, no, bana,” they all exclaimed; “we do not wish to quarrel with you.  In the name of God! go on your way in peace.”

“Fare you well, then,” said I, shaking hands with them.

“Farewell, master, farewell.  We wish you, we are sure, all success, and God be with you, and guide you!”

“March!”

A parting salute was fired; the flags were raised up by the guides, each pagazi rushed for his load, and in a short time, with songs and shouts, the head of the Expedition had filed round the western end of my tembe along the road to Ugunda.

“Now, Mr. Shaw, I am waiting, sir.  Mount your donkey, if you cannot walk.”

“Please, Mr. Stanley, I am afraid I cannot go.”

Why?”

“I don’t know, I am sure.  I feel very weak.”

“So am I weak.  It was but late last night, as you know, that the fever left me.  Don’t back out before these Arabs; remember you are a white man.  Here, Selim, Mabruki, Bombay, help Mr. Shaw on his donkey, and walk by him.”

“Oh, bana, bans,” said the Arabs, “don’t take him.  Do you not see he is sick? "

" You keep away; nothing will prevent me from taking him.  He shall go.”

“Go on, Bombay.”

The last of my party had gone.  The tembe, so lately a busy scene, had already assumed a naked, desolate appearance.  I turned towards the Arabs, lifted my hat, and said again, “Farewell,” then faced about for the south, followed by my four young gun-bearers, Selim, Kalulu, Majwara, and Belali.