Finding a convenient place by a stream we camped for the night, but as it was so fine, did not pitch the tents.  Afterwards I was sorry that we had not gone further from the water, since the mosquitoes bred by millions in the marshes bordering the stream gave us a dreadful time.  On poor Stephen, fresh from England, they fell with peculiar ferocity, with the result that in the morning what between the bruises left by Hassan and their bites, he was a spectacle for men and angels.  Another thing that broke our rest was the necessity of keeping a strict watch in case the slave-traders should elect to attack us in the hours of darkness; also to guard against the possibility of our bearers running away and perhaps stealing the goods.  It is true that before they went to sleep I explained to them very clearly that any of them who attempted to give us the slip would certainly be seen and shot, whereas if they remained with us they would be treated with every kindness.  They answered through the two Mazitu that they had nowhere to go, and did not wish to fall again into the power of Hassan, of whom they spoke literally with shudders, pointing the while to their scarred backs and the marks of the slave yokes upon their necks.  Their protestations seemed and indeed proved to be sincere, but of this of course we could not then be sure.

As I was engaged at sunrise in making certain that the donkeys had not strayed and generally that all was well, I noted through the thin mist a little white object, which at first I thought was a small bird sitting on an upright stick about fifty yards from the camp.  I went towards it and discovered that it was not a bird but a folded piece of paper stuck in a cleft wand, such as natives often use for the carrying of letters.  I opened the paper and with great difficulty, for the writing within was bad Portuguese, read as follows: 

“English Devils.—­Do not think that you have escaped me.  I know where you are going, and if you live through the journey it will be but to die at my hands after all.  I tell you that I have at my command three hundred brave men armed with guns who worship Allah and thirst for the blood of Christian dogs.  With these I will follow, and if you fall into my hands alive, you shall learn what it is to die by fire or pinned over ant-heaps in the sun.  Let us see if your English man-of-war will help you then, or your false God either.  Misfortune go with you, white-skinned robbers of honest men!”

This pleasing epistle was unsigned, but its anonymous author was not hard to identify.  I showed it to Stephen who was so infuriated at its contents that he managed to dab some ammonia with which he was treating his mosquito bites into his eye.  When at length the pain was soothed by bathing, we concocted this answer: