That night our camp outside the village was a scene of roaring conviviality, for we had passed through the starving wilderness and now, for the first time, enjoyed the luxury of a hearty meal. And, let ascetics preach as they will, there is great virtue in a good dinner “which maketh glad the heart of man,” as anyone would have admitted who could have seen the beaming faces upon which the red glow of our camp fire shone that night. Now a man can smile--after a certain fashion--with his mouth full, whereas conversation under those circumstances is hardly practicable; whence it happened that the early part of the entertainment was of a somewhat silent character, communication being maintained principally by gestures and grins of satisfaction. But as the evening wore on and the remains of the ram dwindled into a “frail memorial” of clean-picked bones, and the roasted yams were scraped out to the very rinds, tongues began to wag and conversation and anecdote to buzz round the fire. Naturally enough, the talk fell on the river god of Tano and the strange customs at the bridge. “This is a proud god,” remarked Dam-Bornu, “that will not suffer any man to carry a staff before his face.” “Say rather a proud devil,” said Musa gravely. “There is no god but God.” “It is true,” replied Dam-Bornu, “there is but one God, the wise and the merciful. But this Tano devil, hast thou ever seen the heathen people worship him?” “Never,” answered Musa. “How do they worship?” “I saw them,” said Dam-Bornu, “when I went to Kumasi, at a town not far from here. The wizards dressed in strange garments and wore great wooden faces with horns all painted most horribly, and the people, too, wore curious garments, and danced round the wizards in a ring, sweeping the earth with brushes and shaking rattles.” “Great is the folly of the heathen,” remarked Musa, sententiously, apparently forgetting the offering he had made to the river god as he crossed the bridge. “Hast thou heard the story that Alhassan Ba-Adami tells about the gods’ treasure house?” asked Dan-jiwa. “I have not heard it,” replied Musa. “Wilt thou tell us the story, Alhassan?” “I will tell what I have heard,” said Alhassan; “but I know not if it be true or a fable.” We all settled ourselves to listen, and Alhassan, a quiet, gentle-mannered man, began, a little shyly because of the sudden silence: