But Dr. Livingstone was too deeply engrossed in his own letters from home, which were just a year old.

I received good and bad news from New York, but the good news was subsequent, and wiped out all feelings that might have been evoked had I received the bad only.  But the newspapers, nearly a hundred of them, New York, Boston, and London journals, were full of most wonderful news.  The Paris Commune was in arms against the National Assembly; the Tuileries, the Louvre, and the ancient city Lutetia Parisiorum had been set in flames by the blackguards of Saint-Antoine!  French troops massacring and murdering men, women, and children; rampant diabolism, and incarnate revenge were at work in the most beautiful city in the world!  Fair women converted into demons, and dragged by ruffianly soldiery through the streets to universal execration and pitiless death; children of tender age pinned to the earth and bayoneted; men innocent or not, shot, cut, stabbed, slashed, destroyed—­a whole city given up to the summa injuria of an infuriate, reckless, and brutal army!  Oh France!  Oh Frenchmen!  Such things are unknown even in the heart of barbarous Central Africa.  We spurned the newspapers with our feet; and for relief to sickened hearts gazed on the comic side of our world, as illustrated in the innocent pages of `Punch.’  Poor ‘Punch!’ good-hearted, kindly-natured `Punch!’ a traveller’s benison on thee!  Thy jokes were as physic; thy innocent satire was provocative of hysteric mirth.

Our doors were crowded with curious natives, who looked with indescribable wonder at the enormous sheets.  I heard them repeat the words, “Khabari Kisungu”—­white man’s news—­often, and heard them discussing the nature of such a quantity of news, and expressing their belief that the “Wasungu” were “mbyah sana,” and very “mkali;” by which they meant to say that the white men were very wicked, and very smart and clever though the term wicked is often employed to express high admiration.

On the fourth day from Ugunda, or the 18th of February, and the fifty-third day from Ujiji, we made our appearance with flags flying and guns firing in the valley of Kwihara, and when the Doctor and myself passed through the portals of my old quarters I formally welcomed him to Unyanyembe and to my house.

Since the day I had left the Arabs, sick and, weary almost with my life, but, nevertheless, imbued with the high hope that my mission would succeed, 131 days had elapsed—­with what vicissitudes of fortune the reader well knows—­during which time I had journeyed over 1,200 miles.

The myth after which I travelled through the wilderness proved to be a fact; and never was the fact more apparent than when the Living Man walked with me arm in arm to my old room, and I said to him, “Doctor, we are at last HOME!”

CHAPTER XV.  HOMEWARD BOUND.—­LIVINGSTONE’S LAST WORDS THE FINAL FAREWELL