One morning about eight o’clock, as we sat in the verandah studying the language, we heard the report of guns. In a short time we saw that Malowa’s village was in flames. Twenty minutes later, Kalimbuka (or Kalambuka?) and his men arrived at the Mission station in great excitement, clamouring for powder. The village of their friend had been attacked, and one of their “brothers” was slain! While expressing much sympathy with our neighbours, we had to refuse them powder. On this Kalimbuka protested that we were not his friends, and declared that he would send none of his children to school. True to his word, he called away about twenty pupils that came from his village. Our conduct in refusing powder seemed most dishonourable—we could not expect the natives to understand it. Had we been attacked Kalimbuka would have at once come to the rescue with all his forces. We could not have complained if he and Malemya had proceeded against us as enemies. Yet when we settled in 1879, we warned them both, that we would have nothing to do with their wars: but Kalimbuka was not willing to be bound by this. It was not without emotion that I saw my old friend go away with such a poor opinion of us. Still he had listened to what we said. We insisted that he should wait for Malemya’s help, for if he attacked Kumtaja alone he would likely be beaten. We pointed out that his own village was yet safe, but that if he was afraid for the lives of his people, he might bring them all up to our station. This reasoning had little effect on a man burning to avenge the death of his relative. Messages were soon sent in all directions. It is surprising how quickly natives communicate with each other on such occasions. During the day several detachments passed through the station for Kalimbuka’s village, which was soon the headquarters of a large army. All night the war drums were beaten. Next morning we heard of nothing but great preparations, and as the school was dismissed that evening, the wail of those that were mourning the slain, came plaintively along the hill side. Soon the time arrived for our return to Blantyre. When we passed Kalimbuka, we found him more composed. But he knew that the English had “something” that would burn any village from a great distance, and he was anxious to try its effect on Kumtaja! On our way back, I was desirous to visit Mityoche, the headman that gave some trouble last year. At first our men had concurred in the proposal, but when the first of them came to the parting of the ways, they quietly kept to the Blantyre road. On reaching Blantyre, I wrote to Kalimbuka’s son exhorting him to return to school as soon as his father would let him. It is a great gain when a native is once taught to read a letter in his own tongue.