It was a beautiful country, cool, even at midday, cold at night, free from mosquitoes and flies, and every mile or so an ice-cold stream came tumbling down behind its curtain of ferns and orchids. Marching round the southern face of Chiperoni for twenty miles, we came to a long ridge or arete which I followed till within 500 ft. of the summit, which is rocky and precipitous, but would offer no difficulty to a man without a load. Here I camped on a small plateau in a glade of mahobahoba. It was a delightful change after the sweltering heat of Chiromo, and I could imagine myself again in Switzerland as I looked out over miles of rolling upland and undulating forest. There were numerous signs of elephant which were feeding on the small sugary loquats, but I failed to find any, though I followed one spoor for many miles. From here we worked round to the east face, till, being short of food, I was obliged to follow one of the numerous streams down to the plain. Here was a considerable but scattered population with a large number of domestic pigeons, pigs, ducks, and cats. The pigs were the ordinary bush-pig, while the pigeons, which were blue rocks, must have been originally introduced by the Portuguese. The stream, which flows into the Misongwe, a tributary of the Shiré, is called the Machingiri, and there are numerous signs of rhino, though few antelopes; however, I managed to bag a good sable. As my boys were following very badly on the paths, I cut straight across to Gombi through the forest, a very long, waterless march, and on arrival found there was not one boy a hundred yards behind; after that I had no further difficulty with them. At Gombi I decided to stop for a few days, and the next morning, after spooring a herd of sable for two hours, I shot a splendid bull. I had told the chief, who was now most friendly, that I was going to shoot sable, and he came and asked me what I intended to kill the next day, and was much amused when I jokingly replied that I should bring home a rhinoceros. With this end in view I started early, at 5.30 a.m., and crossing the river, skirted along the foot of the hills, and killed a bull hartebeeste for the Mahomedan boys, who refuse to eat the meat of any beast that has not had its throat cut before death. Although this is a great nuisance (as cutting the throat spoils the head skin), it is right to respect such customs, and I always made a point of killing something else, so that they should not suffer for their belief.