Here we arrived at about dusk, although there was scarcely any ending to the daylight, for we were favoured with a brilliant moon. I now was able to review my men and rearrange the loads so that all the things might be carried on the morrow. I retired at last to my tent, thoroughly exhausted, both with physical fatigue and mental anxiety. Throwing myself, or rather involuntarily tumbling, on my bed, I felt I was fainting, and just roused my energies sufficiently to ask my servant to open my wine-case and get me out some champagne. When a bottle of Moët and Chandon had been uncorked, and a tumblerful (alas for the delicate champagne-glass, I had it not!) drunk, an effect as magical as that of the “hashish” given by the Sheikh of the Mountain to his deluded followers was produced. Before the foaming draught had passed my lips I was a poor, despondent creature of the earth, earthy, and tied to the base soil by physical fatigue and mental prostration; but no sooner had the sparkling wine entered my system than I was transfigured, transformed. My fever-dried skin broke out into grateful perspiration, the fitful pulse resumed a brisk and regular beat—no fainting now. I felt ready to march anywhere, and my blistered and ulcerated feet pained me no more. I ate my evening meal in a sort of tranquil ecstasy, and afterwards undressed dreamily, and steeped all my cares in the Lethe of sleep. And a cupful of champagne on an empty stomach had sufficed to work this happy change! In case there are some of my readers whom this rhapsody (copied almost word for word from my diary) may offend, let them understand that I am singing the praises of champagne as a _medicine_, not as a customary drink. No one can inveigh more strenuously than I against the daily or even frequent use of alcoholic drinks in a hot climate. I believe that in Africa, as a general rule, and under ordinary circumstances, a man may with benefit to himself abstain _totally_ from the use of wine, beer, or spirits. But, for the very reason that he rarely indulges in strong drink, when he does find himself in a state of physical or mental prostration, especially ensuing from attacks of fever, there is no more certain tonic than a little _good_ champagne. I have seen cases in Africa, East and West, where a cupful of champagne administered at an apparently hopeless juncture has snatched a man from a sinking condition, and brought him back to life. I only took a dozen of champagne—and no other wine—with me to Kilima-njaro, and of this dozen eleven bottles were consumed at various crises in my adventures, when I felt my physical strength deserting me. Somehow the very knowledge that you have such a stimulant at hand braces your nerves with mental confidence, and the happy faith in its sovereign efficacy inspires you with a cheering belief that Death himself will flee before a goblet of champagne.