The morning of the 29th I had fifty men loaded with bales, beads, and wire, for Ujiji. When they were mustered for the march outside the tembe, the only man absent was Bombay. While men were sent to search for him, others departed to get one more look, and one more embrace with their black Delilahs. Bombay was found some time about 2 P.M., his face faithfully depicting the contending passions under which he was labouring--sorrow at parting from the fleshpots of Unyanyembe--regret at parting from his Dulcinea of Tabora--to be, bereft of all enjoyment now, nothing but marches--hard, long marches--to go to the war--to be killed, perhaps, Oh! Inspired by such feelings, no wonder Bombay was inclined to be pugnacious when I ordered him to his place, and I was in a shocking bad temper for having been kept waiting from 8 A.M. to 2 P.M. for him. There was simply a word and a savage look, and my cane was flying around Bombay's shoulders, as if he were to be annihilated. I fancy that the eager fury of my onslaught broke his stubbornness more than anything else; for before I had struck him a dozen times he was crying for "pardon." At that word I ceased belaboring him, for this was the first time he had ever uttered that word. Bombay was conquered at last. "March!" and the guide led off, followed in solemn order by forty-nine of his fellows, every man carrying a heavy load of African moneys, besides his gun, hatchet, and stock of ammunition, and his ugali-pot. We presented quite an imposing sight while thus marching on in silence and order, with our flags flying, and the red blanket robes of the men streaming behind them as the furious north-easter blew right on our flank. The men seemed to feel they were worth seeing, for I noticed that several assumed a more martial tread as they felt their royal Joho cloth tugging at their necks, as it was swept streaming behind by the wind. Maganga, a tall Mnyamwezi, stalked along like a very Goliah about to give battle alone, to Mirambo and his thousand warriors. Frisky Khamisi paced on under his load, imitating a lion and there was the rude jester--the incorrigible Ulimengo--with a stealthy pace like a cat. But their silence could not last long. Their vanity was so much gratified, the red cloaks danced so incessantly before their eyes, that it would have been a wonder if they could have maintained such serious gravity or discontent one half hour longer. Ulimengo was the first who broke it. He had constituted himself the kirangozi or guide, and was the standard-bearer, bearing the American flag, which the men thought would certainly strike terror into the hearts of the enemy. Growing confident first, then valorous, then exultant, he suddenly faced the army he was leading, and shouted "Hoy! Hoy! Chorus.--Hoy! Hoy! Hoy! Hoy! Chorus.--Hoy! Hoy! Hoy! Hoy! Chorus.--Hoy! Hoy! Where are ye going? Chorus.--Going to war. Against whom? Chorus.--Against Mirambo.