on a
lump of sugar. This he crunched in his mouth, while he gazed at my wife
with an expression of affection; but he could not speak. I had him well
washed and dressed in clean clothes, that had been kept most carefully
during the voyage, to be worn on our entree to Khartoum. He was laid
down to sleep upon a clean mat, and my wife gave him a lump of sugar to
moisten his mouth and relieve his thickly-furred tongue. His pulse was
very weak, and his skin cold. "Poor Saat," said my wife, "his life
hangs upon a thread. We must nurse him most carefully; should he have a
relapse, nothing will save him."

An hour passed, and he slept. Karka, the fat, good-natured slave woman,
quietly went to his side; gently taking him by the ankles and knees, she
stretched his legs into a straight position, and laid his arms parallel
with his sides. She then covered his face with a cloth, one of the few
rags that we still possessed. "Does he sleep still?" we asked. The tears
ran down the cheeks of the savage but good-hearted Karka as she sobbed,
"He is dead!"

We stopped the boat. It was a sandy shore; the banks were high, and a
clump of mimosas grew above high-water mark. It was there that we dug
his grave. My men worked silently and sadly, for all loved Saat. He
had been so good and true, that even their hard hearts had learned
to respect his honesty. We laid him in his grave on the desert shore,
beneath the grove of trees.

Again the sail was set, and, filled by the breeze, it carried us away
from the dreary spot where we had sorrowfully left all that was good and
faithful. It was a happy end--most merciful, as he had been taken from a
land of iniquity in all the purity of a child converted from Paganism to
Christianity. He had lived and died in our service a good Christian. Our
voyage was nearly over, and we looked forward to home and friends; but
we had still fatigues before us: poor Saat had reached his home and
rest.

On the following morning, May 6, 1865, we were welcomed by the entire
European population of Khartoum, to whom are due my warmest thanks
for many kind attentions. We were kindly offered a house by Monsieur
Lombrosio, the manager of the Khartoum branch of the "Oriental and
Egyptian Trading Company."

I now heard the distressing news of the death of my poor friend Speke.
I could not realize the truth of this melancholy report until I read the
details of his fatal accident in the appendix of a French translation
of his