“For nature, only loud when she destroys,
               Is silent when she fashions.”

But the storm-demon’s name is “Tornado” (Cyclone):  it will probably veer round to the south, where, meeting the dry clouds that are gathering and massing there, it will involve us in another fray.  Meanwhile we are safe, and as the mist clears off we sight the southern shore.  The humbler elevation, notably different from the northern bank, is dotted with villages and clearings.  The Peninsula de Marie-Amelie, alias “Round Corner,” the innermost southern point visible from the mouth, projects to the north-north-east in a line of scattered islets at high tides, ending in Le bois Fetiche, a clump of tall trees somewhat extensively used for picnics.  It has served for worse purposes, as the name shows.

A total of two hours landed me from the Comte de Paris Roads upon the open sandy strip that supports Denistown; the single broad street runs at right angles from the river, the better to catch the sea-breeze, and most of the huts have open gables, a practice strongly to be recommended.  Le Roi would not expose himself to the damp air; the consul was not so particular.  His majesty’s levee took place in the verandah of a poor bamboo hut, one of the dozen which compose his capital.  Seated in a chair and ready for business, he was surrounded by a crowd of courtiers, who listened attentively to every word, especially when he affected to whisper; and some pretty women collected to peep round the corners at the Utangani (white man). [FN#4]

Mr. Wilson described Roi Denis in 1856 as a man of middle stature, with compact frame and well-made, of great muscular power, about sixty years old, very black by contrast with the snow-white beard veiling his brown face.  “He has a mild and expressive eye, a gentle and persuasive voice, equally affable and dignified; and, taken altogether, he is one of the most king-like looking men I have ever met in Africa,” says the reverend gentleman.  The account reminded me of Kimwere the Lion of Usumbara, drawn by Dr. Krapf.  Perhaps six years had exercised a degeneratory effect upon Roi Denis, or perchance I have more realism than sentiment; my eyes could see nothing but a petit vieux vieux, nearer sixty than seventy, with a dark, wrinkled face, and an uncommonly crafty eye, one of those African organs which is always occupied in “taking your measure” not for your good.

I read out the introductory letter from Baron Didelot—­the king speaks a little French and English, but of course his education ends there.  After listening to my projects and to my offers of dollars, liquor, and cloth, Roi Denis replied, with due gravity, that his chasseurs were all in the plantations, but that for a somewhat increased consideration he would attach to my service his own son Ogodembe, alias Paul.  It was sometime before I found out the real meaning of this crafty move; the sharp prince, sent to do me honour, intended me to recommend him to Mr. Hogg as an especially worthy recipient of “trust.”  Roi Denis added an abundance of “sweet mouf,” and, the compact ended, he condescendingly walked down with me to the beach, shook hands and exchanged a civilized “Au revoir.”  I reentered the boat, and we pushed off once more.