The tents looked so warm and bright in the midst of such grey surroundings. Camping out was quite a new experience to most of us and we immensely enjoyed moving in to our new quarters. When we had got straight the whole party came together in our tent, squeezed round the tiny table, and we had a thanksgiving service. Through the goodness of God, things had marvellously adjusted themselves, considering the short time and the swamped condition of the country. We all sang the _Te Deum_ till our little tent rang with voices. [Illustration: THE KIDONG ESCARPMENT. _Photo by W. D. Young, Mombasa._] As we joined in the general thanksgiving and prayers I can truly say that no more heartfelt praise ascended into the courts of Heaven from any temple that Sunday evening, than from our little tabernacle in the wilderness. Outside, darkness reigned, except for the porters’ fires, burning in every direction, with the black figures squatting round, which gave the whole scene a weird and fantastic appearance. The next morning all our loads were hauled out for inspection, and owing to the lack of porters we were obliged to choose out such as would be required for more immediate use; the remaining boxes had to be stacked in a rather too well ventilated shed to await reinforcements of porters. This particular district was in rather a disturbed condition. The day before we had arrived some natives fired upon a European and killed him; in consequence a small detachment of soldiers had been sent out to see into matters and had shot two natives. We were warned at night to have our camp carefully guarded by askaris,[1] as thieves were about in addition to any unfriendly folk who might be prowling round. So a fire was lit just outside our tents, and sentries stationed at close distances. They accosted every passer-by in angry tones, and those who did not use the password “friend” stood a very poor chance of getting off.