I wished to resolve my doubts
and fears. Was HE still there? Had HE heard of my coming? Would HE
fly?
How beautiful Ukaranga appears! The green hills are crowned by
clusters of straw-thatched cones. The hills rise and fall; here
denuded and cultivated, there in pasturage, here timbered, yonder
swarming with huts. The country has somewhat the aspect of Maryland.
We cross the Mkuti, a glorious little river! We ascend the opposite
bank, and stride through the forest like men who have done a deed
of which they may be proud. We have already travelled nine hours,
and the sun is sinking rapidly towards the west; yet, apparently,
we are not fatigued.
We reach the outskirts of Niamtaga, and we hear drums beat. The
people are flying into the woods; they desert their villages, for
they take us to be Ruga-Ruga - the forest thieves of Mirambo, who,
after conquering the Arabs of Unyanyembe, are coming to fight the
Arabs of Ujiji. Even the King flies from his village, and every
man, woman, and child, terror-stricken, follows him. We enter
into it and quietly take possession. Finally, the word is bruited
about that we are Wangwana, from Unyanyembe.
"Well, then, is Mirambo dead?" they ask.
"No," we answer.
"Well, how did you come to Ukaranga?"
"By way of Ukonongo, Ukawendi, and Uhha."
" Oh - hi-le!" Then they laugh heartily at their fright, and begin
to make excuses.
