At dawn on the 9th December we prepared to resume our voyage.  Once or twice in the night we had been visited by fishermen, but our anxious watchfulness prevented any marauding.  It seemed to me, however, that the people of the opposite shore, who were our visitors, were eagerly watching an opportunity to pounce upon our canoe, or take us bodily for a prey; and our men were considerably affected by these thoughts, if we may judge from the hearty good-will with which they rowed away from our late encampment.

Arriving at Cape Kabogi, we came to the territory of the Wasansi.  We knew we were abreast of a different tribe by the greeting “Moholo,” which a group of fishermen gave us; as that of the Wavira was “Wake,” like that of Urundi, Usige, and Uhha.

We soon sighted Cape Luvumba—­a sloping projection of a mountain ridge which shot far into the lake.  As a storm was brewing, we steered for a snug little cove that appeared before a village; and, drawing our canoe from the water, began to set the tent, and make other preparations for passing the night.

As the natives appeared quiet and civil enough, we saw no reason to suspect that they entertained any hostility to Arabs and Wangwana.  Accordingly we had our breakfast cooked, and as usual laid down for an afternoon nap.  I soon fell asleep, and was dreaming away in my tent, in happy oblivion of the strife and contention that had risen since I had gone to sleep, when I heard a voice hailing me with, “Master, master! get up, quick.  Here is a fight going to begin!” I sprang up, and snatching my revolver belt from the gun-stand, walked outside.  Surely, there appeared to be considerable animus between the several factions; between a noisy, vindictive-looking set of natives of the one part, and our people of the other part.  Seven or eight of our people had taken refuge behind the canoe, and had their loaded guns half pointing at the passionate mob, which was momentarily increasing in numbers, but I could not see the Doctor anywhere.

“Where is the Doctor?” I asked.

“He has gone over that hill, sir, with his compass,” said Selim.

“Anybody with him?”

“Susi and Chumah.”

“You, Bombay, send two men off to warn the Doctor, and tell him to hurry up here.”

But just at this period the Doctor and his two men appeared on the brow of the hill, looking down in a most complacent manner upon the serio-comic scene that the little basin wherein we were encamped presented.  For, indeed, despite the serious aspect of it, there was much that was comical blended with it—­in a naked young man who—­perfectly drunk, barely able to stand on his feet—­was beating the ground with his only loin-cloth, screaming and storming away like a madman; declaring by this, and by that, in his own choice language, that no Mgwana or Arab should halt one moment on the sacred soil of Usansi.  His father, the Sultan, was as inebriated