might be carried to another hut less
needful to himself, and as he had been kind and friendly throughout Mr.
Burrup thought it right to comply. Shortly after, on the afternoon of
the 31st of January, the pure, gentle, and noble spirit passed away. The
chief, from superstitious fear, insisted that the body should be
immediately interred, and not on the island, and Mr. Burrup and the
Malokolo therefore laid it in their canoe, and paddled to the mainland,
where a spot was cleared in the bush, the grave dug, and as it was by
this time too dark to see to read, Mr. Burrup said all that he could
remember of the burial service, the four blacks standing wondering and
mournful by.

He saw that for himself the only hope was in a return to Magomero. The
canoe was tried, but the current was so strong that such small numbers
could not make head against it. He therefore proceeded on foot, but fell
down repeatedly from weakness, and was only dragged on by his strong will
and the aid of the Malokolo. They behaved admirably, and when he reached
Chibisa's, and could walk no longer, they and the villagers contrived a
palanquin of wood, and carried him on in it. The chief, finding that his
store of cloth (_i.e._ coin) was expended, actually offered him a present
of some to carry him on.

On the 14th of February, one of the Malokolo appeared before the anxious
colonists at Magomero. His face was that of a bearer of evil tidings,
and when they asked for the Bishop, he hid his face in his hands. When
they pressed further, he said, "_wafa_, _wafa_" (he is dead, he is dead).
And while they stood round stunned, he made them understand that Burrup
was at hand, so ill as to be carried on men's shoulders.

There was nothing to be done but to hurry out to meet him, taking the
last drop of wine remaining. He had become the very shadow of himself,
but even then he slightly rallied, and could he have had nourishing food,
wine or brandy, the strength of his constitution would probably have
carried him through; but the stores were exhausted, there was nothing to
recruit his powers, and on the 23rd of February he likewise died.

Meantime, his young wife, with Miss Mackenzie and Mrs. Livingstone, had
sailed in December in a wretchedly uncomfortable little craft, called the
_Hetty Ellen_. On reaching the Kongone they saw no token of the
_Pioneer_, but after waiting in great discomfort, tossing at the mouth of
the river, the vessel made for Mozam