and as he never allowed a party of
strangers to go away without giving every one of them, servants and all,
a present, his praises were sounded far and wide. "He has a heart! he is
wise!" were the usual expressions we heard before we saw him.

He was much pleased with the proof of confidence we had shown in
bringing our children, and promised to take us to see his country, so
that we might choose a part in which to locate ourselves. Our plan was,
that I should remain in the pursuit of my objects as a missionary, while
Mr. Oswell explored the Zambesi to the east. Poor Sebituane, however,
just after realizing what he had so long ardently desired, fell sick of
inflammation of the lungs, which originated in and extended from an old
wound got at Melita. I saw his danger, but, being a stranger, I feared
to treat him medically, lest, in the event of his death, I should be
blamed by his people. I mentioned this to one of his doctors, who said,
"Your fear is prudent and wise; this people would blame you." He had
been cured of this complaint, during the year before, by the Barotse
making a large number of free incisions in the chest. The Makololo
doctors, on the other hand, now scarcely cut the skin. On the Sunday
afternoon in which he died, when our usual religious service was over, I
visited him with my little boy Robert. "Come near," said Sebituane, "and
see if I am any longer a man. I am done." He was thus sensible of the
dangerous nature of his disease, so I ventured to assent, and added a
single sentence regarding hope after death. "Why do you speak of death?"
said one of a relay of fresh doctors; "Sebituane will never die." If I
had persisted, the impression would have been produced that by speaking
about it I wished him to die. After sitting with him some time, and
commending him to the mercy of God, I rose to depart, when the dying
chieftain, raising himself up a little from his prone position, called
a servant, and said, "Take Robert to Maunku (one of his wives), and tell
her to give him some milk." These were the last words of Sebituane.

We were not informed of his death until the next day. The burial of a
Bechuana chief takes place in his cattle-pen, and all the cattle are
driven for an hour or two around and over the grave, so that it may be
quite obliterated. We went and spoke to the people, advising them to
keep together and support the heir. They took this kindly; and in turn
told us not to be alarmed, for they w