Amongst that group was one old man quite grey, who declared he had been on the islands over thirty years, and his conversation so interested me that I asked him to describe his journey to the coast. This, though a story over thirty years old, was full of terrible interest. The old man had by this time gained some confidence, and when speaking of the district where he was first sold I became convinced that his home was in the far hinterland of the Congo. With unexpected suddenness I startled him by uttering one of the rhythmic morning greetings of his native tongue. The old man started at first, as if struck with a whip, then, like a man half awake, he appeared to reach after some unseen thing; then at last it suddenly broke in upon him that the language he had heard was the music of his boyhood; his wrinkled old face was wreathed in smiles, his tired eyes lit up, and then in short animated sentences he poured forth question after question. “Oh! white man, tell me about Luebo, tell me about Basongo.” “Tell me is Kalamba still alive?” The impetuosity of the questions, the lively gestures, the hungering look in those brown eyes showed how the old man thirsted for information of his little village away on the banks of the broad Kasai. [Illustration: SLAVES ON SAN THOMÉ.] [Illustration: DISUSED SLAVE COMPOUND IN REAR OF HOUSE, CATUMBELLA.] The island of Principe has a horror all its own, for it is infested with the dread sleeping sickness. Conditions are so bad that the Portuguese dare not send the free labourers from Mozambique, lest their current of labour from that part of West Africa should take alarm and cease. White men and women are fleeing from danger, but the authorities still keep slaves within biting distance of the fever impregnated fly. Dr. Correa Mendes, a courageous Portuguese medical authority, has urged that every living animal should be killed as the only hope of saving Principe; but none have yet dared to propose the liberation of the slaves. The slaves of Principe present an even more melancholy appearance than do those of San Thomé. They appear to possess an instinctive knowledge that they are confined in a death-trap, and their appeals for liberation are piteously violent. I cannot readily forget a conversation with four young slaves on Principe. Of these, but two had known freedom; the others had been born of slave parents. On the features of one, the traces of sleeping sickness in an advanced stage were plainly marked, and though still labouring at his task, it was plain that death had already marked him for its own. I asked the usual questions. “Are you well fed?” “Yes, Senhor.” “Clothed and housed?” “Yes, Senhor.” “You are not flogged or beaten?” “Oh! are we not!” “But I am told the planters never beat you.” “Tell me then, Senhor, how was this deep wound caused?” In support of this statement the whole group of slaves chimed in with exclamations and assertions that they were constantly flogged and beaten.