nto the village of Bungandu.
When their friends saw them, they greeted them as we would greet our
friends whom we have long believed to be dead, but who come back smiling
and rejoicing to us. When the people heard their story they greatly
wondered and doubted, but when Dudu and Salimba took them to the place
of parting and showed them the hoof prints of seven elephants on the
road, and the bales that they had hidden in the underwood, they believed
their story. And they made it a rule from that day that no man of the
tribe ever should lift a spear, or draw a bow, or dig a pit, or plant
the poisoned stake in the path, or hang the barbed iron aloft, to do
hurt to an elephant. And as a proof that I have but told the truth go
ask the Bungandu, and they will say why none of their race will ever
seek to hurt the elephant, and it will be the same as I have told you.
That is my story.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

THE SEARCH FOR THE HOME OF THE SUN.

We had a man named Kanga with us in 1883, which name seems to have been
bestowed on him by some Islamised resident of Nyangwe by reason of some
fancied suggestion made by some of his facial marks to the spots on a
guinea-fowl. Kanga had not spoken as yet by the evening fire, but had
been an amused listener. When the other tale-tellers were seen sporting
their gay robes on the Sunday, it may have inspired him to make an
effort to gain one for himself; anyhow, he surprised us one night by
saying that he knew of a tale which perhaps we would like to hear. As
Kanga's tribe was the Wasongora-Meno on the right bank of the Lualaba,
between Nyangwe and Stanley Falls, the mere mention of a tale from that
region was sufficient to kindle my interest.

After a few suitable compliments to Kanga, which were clearly much
appreciated, he spoke as follows:

Master and friends. We have an old phrase among us which is very
common. It is said that he who waits and waits for his turn, may wait
too long, and lose his chance. My tongue is not nimble like some, and
my words do not flow like the deep river. I am rather like the brook
which is fretted by the stones in its bed, and I hope after this
explanation you will not be too impatient with me.

My tale is about King Masama and his tribe, the Balira, who dwelt far in
the inmost region, behind (east) us, who throng the banks of the great
river. They were formerly very numerous, and many of them came to live
among us, but one day King Masama an