An Hour Later, And We Are En Route, At A Pace That I Never Saw Equalled At Any Time By My Caravan.

Every man's feelings are intensified, for there is an animated, nay, headlong, impetuosity about their movements that indicates but too well what is going on in their minds.

Surely, my own are a faithful index to their feelings; and I do not feel a whit too proud to acknowledge the great joy that possesses me. I feel proud to think that I have been successful; but, honestly, I do not feel so elated at that as at the hope that to-morrow I shall sit before a table bounteous with the good things of this life. How I will glory in the hams, and potatoes, and good bread! What a deplorable state of mind, is it not? Ah, my friend, wait till you are reduced to a skeleton by gaunt famine and coarse, loathsome food - until you have waded a Makata swamp, and marched 525 miles in thirty-five days through such weather as we have had - then you will think such pabula, food fit for gods!

Happy are we that, - after completing our mission, after the hurry and worry of the march, after the anxiety and vexation suffered from fractious tribes, after tramping for the last fifteen days through mire and Stygian marsh, - we near Beulah's peace and rest! Can we do otherwise than express our happiness by firing away gunpowder until our horns are emptied - than shout our "hurrahs" until we are hoarse - than, with the hearty, soul-inspiring "Yambos," greet every mother's son fresh from the sea?

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