The hour of parting draws near; several subalterns return to their duties, while my old friend and a newly-promoted officer come to see me off. The _Gironde_, also of the Messageries Maritimes, plies from Diego Suarez to Durban and _vice versâ_. Several artillery and marine officers, having heard of my presence, have come to wish me godspeed on board. I am much touched at this token of sympathy from unknown friends, for, setting my humble personality aside, it is a homage to the noble cause I am on my way to uphold. But the bell rings, the anchor is weighed, and we are off. If the _Natal_ was an old ’fine steamer,’ the _Gironde_ is a _very_ old one. She was formerly one of the swift and elegant Indian liners, but now, obsolete and worn-out, is reserved for this little auxiliary service till such time as some sudden squall shall send her to the bottom. Nevertheless, we arrived safely at Mozambique, where some few days before a terrible cyclone had destroyed part of the native village. Huts were overthrown and lying in fragments, trees torn up by the roots, telegraph-wires broken; an air of mournful desolation hung over the district. Meanwhile, the buxom negresses of the quarter went about their daily work, apparently unmoved at the ruin of their dwellings. We pay a visit to the fort, a very curious sight, with its mediæval battlements bristling with cannon two hundred years old, and its soldiers armed with flintlock muskets. All these excellent Portuguese warriors seem to be impressed by a sense of their lofty mission. They even demurred a little before admitting us into their ’citadel.’ We take up the Archbishop of Mozambique, I believe; he is brought on board by a military launch, with all the honours due to his rank, and saluted by the guns of the fort. We leave Mozambique the same evening. Every day there were superb sunsets, glories of deep purple, blue, blazing red, green, yellow and pink, vivid pieces of impressionism that beggar description. Thus, still avoiding shipwreck, we come to Beira, where we land our prelate, who is received by a numerous staff of officers; troops line the quays, and salutes are fired! Portugal has certainly a remarkable colonial army. Among the others there is a huge captain, bursting out of his tunic. Each of his long commands, incomprehensible to me, seems to produce consternation in his troop, followed by a series of perfectly diverse manoeuvres. We turn away that we may avoid laughing aloud, for the moment is a serious one... Two or three trombones attack the Portuguese national air. A good many of the worthy soldiers have shouldered arms, and the majority have presented them.... His lordship passes. He gets into a little ’lorry’ pushed by natives, and goes off quickly, while the troops disperse. They are worthy of those I have several times seen at Lisbon.