Upon asking the Pasha what claims Casati had upon the girl--who is intensely black and about five years old--he said that Casati a few years ago had applied to him for a female cook. She had accompanied him to Unyoro while he had represented him in that country. During her service with Casati the female cook gave birth to this child, who was the offspring of a Soudanese soldier. For three years the child was reared by Casati in his house. She became a pet, and with her artless prattle and childish ways she relieved the solitary man’s tedious life. On his expulsion from Unyoro by Rabba Rega and return to the province, the woman was claimed by her husband, and likewise the child, but at the same time he disclaimed paternity. Casati refused to deliver the child up, and has obstinately refused to do so to this day. The Pasha thinks it possible that the soldier has some sinister intentions respecting Casati, and deplores Casati’s morbid attachment to his servants, male and female. He is disinclined to exercise his authority on Casati, who has been his guest and true friend for many years, but he regrets that his friend will not be advised by him. This conversation occurred between 5.30 to 6.30 P.M. One hour later, while taking a short stroll before my tent in the moonlight, I heard a fierce brawling voice uttering in Arabic guttural imprecations. Amid the loud, strenuous, and voluble abuse, I distinguished my name and the Pasha’s frequently, with determined splutterings of “Enough--enough--enough!” I heard other voices coaxingly crying, “For the Prophet’s sake.” “Have a little patience.” “Ease your wrath,” and such like, and presently the Pasha’s voice rang out deep and strong “What is the matter there? Peace, I charge you; peace, then,--Well, go and tell Mr. Stanley; his tent is not far off. Go!” Presently, one Mohammed Effendi, the engineer, a light skinned and not unprepossessing Egyptian, thus challenged, rushed up to me, followed by a large crowd, and poured--that is the term--a story strongly coloured by jealousy and bitter with angry denunciations. His wife, he said, to whom he had been lawfully married at Khartoum, had been allowed by him, on the death of the Abyssinian mother of Ferida, to become nurse to the child. This was thirty months ago. At first his wife could find time not only to perform duty by the child, but also to him, but during the last six months she had become estranged from him, and abused him violently upon every occasion they met. During the last twenty-four hours he had sent over a score of messages to her, each of which she had rejected with increasing scorn. Was this right? Was there no justice for him? “Really, my friend Mohammed,” I replied, “I have no authority to settle such delicate questions. Have you been to the Pasha? Have you asked him to try and exercise his authority? Seeing that she is a nurse in his household, he is the person you should apply to; not me.”