rs from the port town.

They were followed by the camp servants in long, white robes,
Beira-boys and Swahilis, driving before them a little flock of sheep.
Parr, at the head of another squad of askaris, brought up the rear,
riding a Muscat donkey. He raised his head, and his withered mouth,
emerging from the shadow of his helmet, showed a melancholy smile.

He was drinking in the smell of Africa, and listening to the song of
the safari.

At times the song died down into a hum. But soon a quavering falsetto
was heard formulating a new motive, expressing a new thought. Other
voices joined the leader's; a minor refrain swept up and down the line;
and abruptly the climax swelled out in a diapason descending far into
the bass. So that every one could sing, the improvisor had phrased his
thoughts in Swahili, the inter-tribal language of Africa. He sang of
the Bibi from afar, her skin like a bowl of milk, who was traveling as
a bride to Fort Pero d'Anhaya.

"She is rich. She is the daughter of a sultan. She is ill, but she
will be well. She is sad, but she will be happy. We shall eat much
meat at her wedding."

The deep chorus rolled out to a banging of sticks on the sides of the
balanced boxes.

"Wah! This Bibi is rich! We shall eat much meat at her wedding!"

"They sing of you," said Hamoud, turning his limpid eyes toward her
face which was veiled by swaying fringes of the awning. She unclenched
her fists; her body slowly relaxed; and a look of incredulity appeared
in her eyes, as she returned from afar to this oscillating world of
steamy heat, throbbing with aboriginal song, impregnated with the smell
of putrefying foliage and of sweat. From under the feet of the
machilla carriers a cloud of mauve butterflies rose like flowers to
strew themselves over her soft body. It was as if the machilla had
suddenly become a bier.

"God forbid it!" Hamoud muttered, averting his face from that sign.

He wore a tight turban of many colored stripes cocked up over one ear;
he had bared his legs, and bound sandals on his small feet; and round
his waist, over the sash that held his dagger, he had fastened a web
belt sustaining a bolstered pistol. He never left the side of the
moving machilla.

They soon put behind them the mangroves of the coast. They passed
through brakes of white-tipped feathery reeds, beyond which expanded
forests whose velvety foliage was mingled with gray curtains of moss.
On their left a li