My Horse Died; Had I Left Him To Fester And Stink In Your Valley, Sickness Would Visit Your Village, Your Water Would Become Unwholesome, And Caravans Would Not Stop Here For Trade; For They Would Say, `This Is An Unlucky Spot, Let Us Go Away.' But Enough Said:

I understand you to say that you do not want him buried in your ground; the error I have fallen into is easily put right.

This minute my soldiers shall dig him out again, and cover up the soil as it was before; and the horse shall be left where he died." (Then shouting to Bombay.) "Ho! Bombay, take soldiers with jembes to dig my horse out of the ground, drag him to where he died, and make everything ready for a march to-morrow morning."

Kingaru, his voice considerably higher, and his head moving to and fro with emotion, cries out, "Akuna, akuna, bana!" - "No, no, master! Let not the white man get angry. The horse is dead, and now lies buried; let him remain so, since he is already there, and let us be friends again."

The Sheikh of Kingaru being thus brought to his senses, we bid each other the friendly "Kwaheri," and I was left alone to ruminate over my loss. Barely half an hour had elapsed, it was 9 P.M., the camp was in a semi-doze, when I heard deep groans issuing from one of the animals. Upon inquiry as to what animal was suffering, I was surprised to hear that it was my bay horse.

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