Something must have happened to him; that was certain; and it mattered little whether it was death or captivity. It was finally decided to wait fifteen days longer, or till the new moon, when, if he did not appear, they would strike camp and march back to Unyanyembe. The fifteen days would have expired the next day after Stanley's arrival. If, therefore, he had been delayed forty-eight hours longer, instead of being received with the waving of flags, shouts and volleys of musketry, and wild demonstrations of delight, there would have been no welcome, but a silent, deserted camp. This would have been a terrible blow, and would have dashed with the bitterest disappointment all the joy at his task successfully accomplished. But he had been saved all this; still one calamity had befallen him for which there was no remedy; young Barker had died only a few days before his arrival, and six of his strong men had fallen victims to dysentery and fever. Thus while in all the danger through which he had passed on the lake he had not lost a man, seven had died while lying idly in a healthy camp. The death of Barker he felt keenly, for of the three white men who had started with him, two had already fallen, and now only one was left. In writing to his mother, announcing his death, and expressing his sympathy with her in her affliction, he thus speaks of the manner in which it occurred: "I was absent on an exploring expedition on Lake Victoria, having left Francis Pocoke and Frederick Barker in charge of my camp. Altogether I was absent fifty-eight days. When I returned, hoping that I would find that all had gone well, I was struck with the grievous news that your son had died twelve days before, of an intermittent fever. What little I have been able to learn of your son's death, amounts to this: On April 22d, he went out on the lake with Pocoke to shoot hippopotami, and all day enjoyed himself. On the morning of the 23d he went out for a little walk, had his tea and some pancakes, washed himself, and then suddenly said he felt ill, and lay down in bed. He called for a hot stone to be put to his feet; brandy was given him, blankets were heaped on him, but he felt such cold in his extremities that nothing availed to restore heat in his body. His blood seems to have become congealed. At eight o'clock, an hour after he lay down, he was dead. Such is what I have been able to glean from Pocoke of the manner of his death. But by our next letter-carrier, Pocoke shall send you a complete account." He then goes on to speak of his excellent qualities and promising future, and his own great loss.