It had been decided to make for the southern shore of Lake Albert, which as the crow flies appears to lie about forty miles north of Kabarole. The first day we struck camp at the crater Lake only a few miles away. This spot has a peculiar charm; a turn in the road brings one suddenly in view of this still sheet of water, and there is something rather uncanny about the dead waters lying in sepulchres of the past. I am not surprised that the natives associate them with stories of devils and hobgoblins. One side of the crater has been worn away, leaving an outlet for the water that has accumulated in its mouth, and this flowed out a few hundred yards before it found its level. Numbers of duck play about the waters of the lake, and beautiful purple and pink water-lilies grow close to the banks. We found a regular orchestra of frogs croaking _forte fortissimo_ as an all-night serenade. It was just one of those days when the world feels flooded with self-satisfaction and peace and God seems “to rest in His love” as we started off early the next morning. Having the loan of a Muscat donkey given me, I hurried off to get ahead of the caravan and reach of listeners, and then gave full vent to my feelings in that glorious hymn, “Praise my soul, the King of Heaven.” An old woman, who had been fearfully startled at the unusual sight and sound, peered suddenly through the long grasses on the roadside, and so stopped my noble steed in his lively gallop. Exercising the usual native politeness, I greeted her with “How are you, my mother?” She replied in the most complimentary terms “How’s yourself, mother of my grandmother?” I then asked her why she wore the shell and bit of wood threaded on string round her neck, and she told me it was to cure a pain on the chest. The words felt like a harsh discord. When “Heaven lies about us” and every common bush is aflame with God, it is inconceivable how any man can remain cognisant only of the Spirit of Evil.