Arriving at Butiti, which is only 30 miles from Kabarole, the capital of Toro, we found a most prosperous work going on among the people. Our kind escort from Lwekula, Mr. Ecob, was stationed there. A marriage was solemnized in the Mission Church on the day of our arrival. We went out of curiosity and to get a peep into the native customs. Never have I disgraced myself by such uncontrollable laughter. First of all, the pair were not forthcoming, and so the parson organized a search party. A hilarious sound from the porch warned us of the bridegroom’s arrival. He was a lanky stripling of about 17, dressed in a long white gown. His best man wore a very hole-y shirt, Jaeger-coloured for want of a wash. An unwound turban was thrown over his shoulder till required. The bridegroom went forward and squatted on a grass mat in front of the chancel to await his betrothed. Soon a slow, solemn procession coming in at a side door brought in view the belated bride, accompanied and surrounded by about thirty maidens. How can I describe that picture! She was ugly—as ugly as the imagination could picture; somewhat advanced in years; her face was marred by cutting and branding, and she was reeking with grease which was amply smeared over face and shoulders. On her head sat a red Turk’s cap worn as a sign of marriage or high station. This, on account of its size, had the appearance of a candle extinguisher. Then her body was swathed in all sorts of coloured prints and beads. After the ceremony, the couple left by different doors, the bridesmaids holding an old torn “brollie” over the retiring bride, who was weeping copiously. The women regard marriage in rather a philosophical light. They say it has two arms. One brings a home, protection, and presents of clothing and rejoicing. The other shuts the door of liberty; it brings work, and that means sorrow. The thought of the latter predominates on the wedding day. When six miles away from Butiti we got our first view of the Mountains of the Moon. I can never forget the sight that was suddenly opened up as we turned a sharp bend round a high hill. It was 4.30 p.m. Huge peaks, sharp and rugged, stretched from north to south in an unbroken range of sixty-nine miles long. Heavy black thunder clouds rolled over some of the summits, while the lightning shot out angry tongues of fire. Torrents of rain were sweeping away to our right, while the sun beat down in full strength upon the valleys. Above all, calm and serene, shone the region of snow. For all ages the sun has directed its equatorial power against that ice fortress. Storms have thundered and crushed against its foundations, but it has ever stood as the one impregnable and unsullied witness of holiness and purity to God, in a land where darkness has reigned, and the storms of passion, vice and barbarity have laid desolate.