Stanley soon discovered that he was not alone in his opinion, and though once he would have quelled this spirit of rebellion with prompt, determined action, he did not feel like using harsh measures now, or even harsh language. He knew he had tasked them to the uttermost--that they had followed his bidding unquestioned so far as he ought to ask them, and so he called them together to talk with them and give them an opportunity frankly to tell their grievances. But they had nothing to say, except that they had gone far enough and did not mean to make another effort. Death and famine awaited them, and they might as well give up first as last. Stanley did not attempt even to appeal to them, except indirectly. He simply told them that he too was hungry, and could have had meat, but saved it for them. He too was weary and sad. They might leave him if they chose--he had his boat still, and if he was left alone he had but to step into it--the falls were near, and he would soon be at rest with his friend. It is most pitiful and sad to see how the indomitable will of this strong man had given way. The bold and confident manner with which he set out from Nyangwe--the healthy, cheery tone in which he addressed them when bowed down with grief at the farewell song of Tipo-tipo's Arabs are gone, and in their place had come a great weariness and despair. To see such a strong man forced at last to yield, awakens the deepest sympathy. No wonder he was weary of life, and longed to die. Under his terrible mental and physical strain of the last six months the toughest nature must give way, while to this was added the feebleness that comes from want of food and the utterly dreary, hopeless prospect before him. As he stood amid his dusky followers, his once sinewy frame looked lean and languid, and his voice had a weary, despairing tone. The star of fame that had led him on was gone down, and life itself had lost all its brightness, and when he had done speaking he turned away indifferent as to the future. The men listened, but their hungry, despairing hearts felt no sympathy. They too had reached the point of indifference as to the future, except they would no longer cling to that cruel river, and thirty-one packed their baggage and filed away up the ascent and were soon lost to view. When it was told to Stanley, he inquired how many had gone. Learning that only thirty-one had left, and that the rest would stand by him to the last, he roused himself, and unwilling that the faithful should perish through the disaffection of a few men he sent messengers after the deserters to plead with them to come back. They overtook them five miles away and urged them to return, but in vain. Setting the faithful to work, he dispatched two men to cut off the fugitives and to tell the chiefs not to let them pass through their territory. They obeyed and beat the war-drum, which so terrified the wanderers that they were glad to return.