There was no chance of getting off in the morning, and we made a tour of the island. It chanced to be the one on which the _Ruwenzori_ had been wrecked. The captain and his native crew had succeeded in getting safely to land, but were in a sad plight without shoes and socks and provisions. It was most fortunate our party happened to have lighted on that particular island, and so were able to replenish the meagre stores of these shipwrecked mariners. The natives flocked together when they heard of the arrival of white men, and begged them to shoot the hippopotami that had been destroying their cultivation. They showed us round their village, in the centre of which was their devil temple. The head priest alone was allowed to enter. Round the courtyard were placed flat and upright stone slabs; these were the seats of the priests, who sat round in a semi-circle when their head priest was inside invoking the evil spirit. The only one in our party who knew their language spoke to them, and they all united in asking that teachers might be sent to them to instruct them in these “good words.” Now there is no need to send to them, for since then the island has been depopulated by the sleeping sickness. Not one inhabitant remains—and they died with their request unanswered! On the morning of the eighth day we were all eagerly examining the fringe of land lying straight ahead. The opera glasses spied out a few dark figures moving about close to the landing stage. In imagination and Pears’ Soap advertisements I had often seen the picture, the blue, transparent water, a stretch of sandy shore—the background of banana trees and palms, a few grass huts, and a dark-skinned figure standing out in bold relief with the broad smile displaying a row of white teeth. “Otyano Munange” (How do you do, my friend?) and a prolonged exchange of grunts greeted us as we stepped from the dhow on to the shores of Port Munyonyo. During the few minutes of waiting for our boxes to be unloaded I moved toward a little hut from which the sound of voices was coming. Peeping in at the low doorway, I saw a man dressed in white linen (evidently the head of the household). He was sitting, reading aloud to a group of men and women gathered round him. The Book was the Gospel of St. John. Surely this was Uganda, where the people who sat in darkness have seen a great light. It is wonderful what the Bible has done for them. Its influence penetrates the entire country, and its very utterances are the language of the people. Its expressions of greeting and farewell are used, and with reverence. How our bicycles did run away with us over those seven miles to Mengo. After mounting them, we were followed by numbers of natives, and from every direction they came out of their shambas to greet us, falling down on their knees and saying, “You are our prayers, thank you.”