In twenty-nine days they had marched three hundred and thirty-eight miles. Twelve miles a day, including stoppages and delays, was in such a country rapid marching--nay, almost unparalleled; but Stanley had turned his face homeward and could stand no African dilly-dallying on the way. We cannot go into the details of this homeward march,--to-day startled by a thousand warriors, streaming along the war-path,--to-morrow on the brink of a collision with the natives, the end of which no one could foresee, but the caravan pressed on until they came to the neighborhood of the terrible Makata swamps, that Stanley had occasion so well to remember. Heavy rains had set in, swelling all the streams and inundating the plains, so that the marching was floundering through interminable stretches of water. Now swimming turbulent rivers--now camping in the midst of pestiferous swamps, and all the time drenched by the rain, that fell in torrents--they struggled on until, at last, they came to the dreaded Makata swamp itself. The sight that met them here was appalling, but there was no retreat, and for long hours they toiled slowly through, sometimes up to their necks in water, sometimes swimming, and where it was shallow sinking in deep mire. They thus fought their way on, and at last, weary, worn and half-starved, came to the Makata River. But no sooner were they over this, than a lake six miles wide stretched before them. The natives warned him against attempting to cross it; but nothing could stop him now, and they all plunged in.