mpt at resistance, while Mr. Maples, trusting to
the well-known awe of the natives for a white man, remained perfectly
calm, fixing his eyes upon the assailants, and explaining by gestures
that he and his party intended no violence. After a few moments'
consultation, the Magwangwara bade them go into Masasi, but Mr. Maples,
realising that this would probably mean death, or at any rate slavery,
for his followers, without the hope of saving their friends, decided to
strike eastward to Newala, a village some fifty miles away. The chief
there was friendly to the white men, and, if any one had escaped from
Masasi, it was to Newala that they would probably go.

So, once out of sight of the war party, they started upon a terrible
journey through the thick bush, avoiding the beaten track, and every
moment expecting a fresh attack by one of the scattered bands of the
enemy. The heat was overpowering, the party had no food with them, and,
to add to their troubles, Mr. Maples sprained his leg so badly as to
make progress after sunset impossible. By morning, however, he was able
to go forward, and there was another painful day's journey, still
without food, save for a little sour fruit and cassava root, though
water was mercifully plentiful. As they drew nearer to Newala, a
terrible question began to weigh upon them all--what would they find?
Was it possible that Matola, the friendly chief, would be there to
receive them? Was it not more than likely that the village would be
deserted, the inhabitants escaped to the bush, and neither food nor
shelter awaiting the worn-out fugitives? Haunted by these fears they lay
down for another night of hunger and uncertainty, eleven miles from
Newala, and then, on Sunday morning, pressed on once more. Their hearts
sank at finding the huts on the outskirts of the village deserted. Then
came a joyful sight, a native carrying fowls, the universal food in
Central Africa. He was hailed, and the eager question asked, 'Is Matola
here?'

'Yes,' was the ready answer, 'he waited for you. He felt sure some of
you would come, since Masasi has been destroyed.'

A good reply, this, to the accusation that the Central African tribes
are incapable of gratitude or devotion. Matola was a heathen chief, used
all his life to the sudden flights from a stronger foe which are the
custom in this land of raids; but the lives of the white men, who came
to Africa without hope or gain for love of their dark brothers, had