is property, if I lived. If I died, which, he added, "of course
you must, Baas, like the rest of us," it was to be devoted to furnishing
poor black people in hospital with something comforting to drink instead
of the "cow's water" that was given to them there. Needless to say
I turned him out at once, and that testamentary deposition remained
unrecorded. Indeed it was unnecessary, since, as I reminded him, on my
advice he had already made a will before we left Durban, a circumstance
that he had quite forgotten.

The second event, which occurred about an hour before our departure,
was, that hearing a mighty wailing in the market-place where once Hans
and I had been tied to stakes to be shot to death with arrows, I went
out to see what was the matter. At the gateway I was greeted by the
sight of about a hundred old women plastered all over with ashes,
engaged in howling their loudest in a melancholy unison. Behind these
stood the entire population of Beza-Town, who chanted a kind of chorus.

"What the devil are they doing?" I asked of Hans.

"Singing our death-song, Baas," he replied stolidly, "as they say that
where we are going no one will take the trouble to do so, and it is
not right that great lords should die and the heavens above remain
uninformed that they are coming."

"That's cheerful," I remarked, and wheeling round, asked Ragnall
straight out if he wished to persevere in this business, for to tell the
truth my nerve was shaken.

"I must," he answered simply, "but there is no reason why you and Hans
should, or Savage either for the matter of that."

"Oh! I'm going where you go," I said, "and where I go Hans will go.
Savage must speak for himself."

This he did and to the same effect, being a very honest and faithful
man. It was the more to his credit since, as he informed me in private,
he did not enjoy African adventure and often dreamed at nights of
his comfortable room at Ragnall whence he superintended the social
activities of that great establishment.

So we departed and marched for the matter of a month or more through
every kind of country. After we had passed the head of the great lake
wherein lay the island, if it really was an island, where the Pongo used
to dwell (one clear morning through my glasses I discerned the mountain
top that marked the former residence of the Mother of the Flower, and by
contrast it made me feel quite homesick), we struck up north, following
a route known to Babemba