It was no time for recrimination, as at the report of Ismail’s rifle, a fresh burst of firing broke from our men in the rear, which we instantly quelled. It was a dastardly act on Ismail’s part, even though at the time he was almost frenzied with grief at Jamah’s injury, as we had no reason to believe that the unfortunate guide had played us false. As we found out afterwards, the real culprit was the Masai volunteer, who, it appeared, was a native of Embe, who had been sent for the purpose of betraying us. At the same time, N’Dominuki’s nephew had neglected to warn us, or point out that we were going by a bad road. A great deal remained to be explained, but his untimely end put further explanation out of his power for ever. However, there we were in the dark, stuck on a path eighteen inches wide, with a wounded man and no guides. The question now was how to get out without further loss. We called a council of war, first posting the Somali advance-guide a few yards up the path. We decided to wait till daylight, as we could not move while Jamah was living, and he was too far gone to be carried. It was a ghastly wait. After the firing and shouting, the silence could almost be felt; it seemed absolutely deathlike. We strained our ears to the utmost at the slightest rustle of a leaf, as, for all we knew, the bush might be swarming with natives waiting their opportunity for a rush. A curious sight we should have presented to a spectator. The Somalis, led by Ismail, were grouped, praying, round the dying Jamah, who was sinking fast and moaning softly at intervals. El Hakim, revolver in hand, stood bolt upright, and intensely on the alert, his face showing faintly white through the gloom. Beside him stood George, drumming with his fingers on his rifle—a habit of his—softly humming an air from “Cavalleria Rusticana.” Crouched down on the path were the men, motionless as bronze statues, conversing in low whispers now and then, while they strained their eyes in the endeavour to pierce the surrounding bush. A yard or so away lay the dead body of N’Dominuki’s nephew; his dirty cotton waist-cloth smouldering where it had caught fire from the explosion of Ismail’s rifle, nearly choking us with the smell of singed flesh and the pungent odour of burning cloth. We tried several times to put out the cloth, but we had no water, and it was in vain we attempted to smother it; so it smouldered all night, and uncommonly unpleasant we found it.