During our halt for breakfast at the barracoon, we were visited by Petit Denis, a son of the old king.  His village is marked upon the charts some four miles south-south-east of his father’s; but at this season all the royalties, we are assured, affect the sea-shore.  He was dressed in the usual loin-wrap, under a broadcloth coat, with the French official buttons.  Leading me mysteriously aside, he showed certificates from the officials at Le Plateau, dating from 1859, recommending him strongly as a shipbroker for collecting emigrants libres, and significantly adding, les negres ne manquent pas.  Petit Denis’s face was a study when I told him that, being an Englishman, a dozen negroes were not worth to me a single “Njina.”  Slave cargoes of some eight to ten head are easily canoed down the rivers, and embarked in schooners for the islands:  the latter sadly want hands, and should be assisted in setting on foot a system of temporary immigration.

At 10.45 A.M. we resumed our march.  The fiery sun had sublimated black clouds, the northeast quarter looked ugly, and I wished to be housed before the storm burst.  The coast appeared populous; we met many bushmen, who were perfectly civil, and showed no fear, although some of them had probably never seen a white face.  All were armed with muskets, and carried the usual hunting talismans, horns and iron or brass bells, hanging from the neck before and behind.  We crossed four sweet-water brooks, which, draining the high banks, flowed fast and clear down cuts of loose, stratified sand, sometimes five feet deep:  the mouths opened to the north-west, owing to the set of the current from the south-west, part of the great Atlantic circulation running from the Antarctic to the equator.  Those which are not bridged with fallen trees must be swum during the rains, as the water is often waist-deep.  Many streamlets, shown by their feathery fringes of bright green palm, run along the shore before finding an outlet; they are excellent bathing places, where the salt water can be washed off the skin.  The sea is delightfully tepid, but it is not without risk,—­it becomes deep within biscuit-toss, there is a strong under-tow, and occasionally an ugly triangular fin may be seen cruizing about in unpleasant proximity.  As our naked feet began to blister, we suddenly turned to the left, away from the sea; and, after crossing about 100 yards of prairillon, one of the prettiest of its kind, we found ourselves at Bwamange, the village of King Langobumo.  It was then noon, and we had walked about three hours and a half in a general south-south-west direction.

His majesty’s hut was at the entrance of the village, which numbered five scattered and unwalled sheds.  He at once led us to his house, a large bamboo hall, with several inner sleeping rooms for the “Harim;” placed couch, chair, and table, the civilization of the slave-trade; brought wife No. 1 to shake hands, directed a fowl to be killed, and, sitting down, asked us the news in French.