without an exception, all marched away obediently after the kirangozi.  I was about bidding farewell to Thani, and Hamed, when Thani said, “Stop a bit, Sahib; I have had enough of this child’s play; I come with you,” and his caravan was turned after mine.  Hamed’s caravan was by this time close to the defile, and he himself was a full mile behind it, weeping like a child at what he was pleased to call our desertion of him.  Pitying his strait—­for he was almost beside himself as thoughts of Kiwyeh’s sultan, his extortion and rudeness, swept across his mind—­I advised him to run after his caravan, and tell it, as all the rest had taken the other road, to think of the Sultan of Kiwyeh.  Before reaching the Kiti defile I was aware that Hamed’s caravan was following us.

The ascent of the ridge was rugged and steep, thorns of the prickliest nature punished us severely, the acacia horrida was here more horrid than usual, the gums stretched out their branches, and entangled the loads, the mimosa with its umbrella-like top served to shade us from the sun, but impeded a rapid advance.  Steep outcrops of syenite and granite, worn smooth by many feet, had to be climbed over, rugged terraces of earth and rock had to be ascended, and distant shots resounding through the forest added to the alarm and general discontent, and had I not been immediately behind my caravan, watchful of every manoeuvre, my Wanyamwezi had deserted to a man.  Though the height we ascended was barely 800 feet above the salina we had just left, the ascent occupied two hours.

Having surmounted the plateau and the worst difficulties, we had a fair road comparatively, which ran through jungle, forest, and small open tracts, which in three hours more brought us to Munieka, a small village, surrounded by a clearing richly cultivated by a colony of subjects of Swaruru of Mukondoku.

By the time we had arrived at camp everybody had recovered his good humour and content except Hamed.  Thani’s men happened to set his tent too close to Hamed’s tree, around which his bales were stacked.  Whether the little Sheikh imagined honest old Thani capable of stealing one is not known, but it is certain that he stormed and raved about the near neighbourhood of his best friend’s tent, until Thani ordered its removal a hundred yards off.  This proceeding even, it seems, did not satisfy Hamed, for it was quite midnight—­as Thani said—­when Hamed came, and kissing his hands and feet, on his knees implored forgiveness, which of course Thani, being the soul of good-nature, and as large-hearted as any man, willingly gave.  Hamed was not satisfied, however, until, with the aid of his slaves, he had transported his friend’s tent to where it had at first been pitched.

The water at Munieka was obtained from a deep depression in a hump of syenite, and was as clear as crystal, and’ cold as ice-water—­a luxury we had not experienced since leaving Simbamwenni.