And then? Ah! then the prospect will be blank indeed! However, ‘Thy will be done. Elijah was fed by a raven; a mere dove brought hope to Noah; unto the hungering Christ, angels ministered. To God, the All-bountiful, all things are possible!’ To keep his mind from brooding over the hopeless prospect, he turns to his Journal, occupies himself with writing down at large, and with method, the brief jottings of his lengthy journeys, that nothing may be obscure of his history in the African wilds to those who may hereafter act as the executors and administrators of his literary estate. When fatigued by his constrained position on the clay floor in that east-facing verandah, he would lift his heavy Journal from his lap, and, with hand to chin, sit for hours in his brooding moods, thinking, ever thinking--mind ever revolving the prayer, ‘How long, O Lord, must Thy servant bear all this?’ At noon, on the tenth day after his arrival at Ujiji from the west,--while he was in one of these brooding fits on the verandah,--looking up to the edge of that mountain-plateau, whence we, a few hours before, had gazed in rapture on the Tanganyika, several volleys of musketry suddenly startled him and his drowsy neighbours. The town was wakened from its _siesta_ by the alarming sound of firing. The inhabitants hurriedly issued out of their homes somewhat frightened, asking one another if it were Mirambo and his bandits. The general suspicion that the strangers could be no other than the ubiquitous African chief and his wild men caused all to lay their hands on their arms and prepare for the conflict. The boldest, creeping cautiously out of the town, see a caravan descending slowly towards Ujiji, bearing the Zanzibar and American flags in front, and rush back shouting out the news that the strangers are friends from Zanzibar. In a few minutes the news becomes more definite: people say that it is a white man’s caravan. Looking out upon the market-place from his verandah, Livingstone is, from the first, aware of the excitement which the sudden firing is causing; but if it be Mirambo, as all suspect it to be, it does not matter much to him, for he is above the miserable fear of death; violent as it may be, it will be but a happy release from the afflictions of life. Soon, however, men cried out to him, ‘Joy, old master, it is a white man’s caravan; it may belong to a friend of thine.’ This Livingstone contemptuously declines to believe. It is then that Susi appears, rushing up to me with his impulsive ‘Good-morning.’ None knew better than Susi what a change in the circumstances of his old master and himself the arrival of an English-speaking white man foreshadowed. With even more energy of movement he returned to Livingstone, crying, ‘It is true, sir, it is a white man, he speaks English; and he has got an American flag with him.’ More than ever perplexed by this news, he asks, ‘But are you sure of what you say? Have you seen him?’