The path ran along the flank of an eminence, and, ascending a second step, as steep but shorter than the Pass Terrible, placed us at the Little Rubeho, or Windy Pass, the summit of the third and westernmost range of the Usagara Mountains, raised 5,700 feet above the sea-level. It is the main water-parting of this ghaut-region. At Inenge the trend is still to the S.E.; beyond Rubeho the direction is S.W. Eventually, however, the drainage of both slope and counter-slope finds its way to the Indian Ocean, the former through the Mukondokwa and the Kingani, the latter through the Rwaha and the Rufiji Rivers. A lively scene awaited my arrival at the “Little Rubeho.” From a struggling mass of black humanity, which I presently determined to be our porters, proceeded a furious shouting and yelling. Spears and daggers flashed in the sun, and cudgels played with a threshing movement which promised many a broken head. At the distance of a few yards, with fierce faces and in motionless martial attitudes, the right hand upon the axe-handle stuck in the waist-belt, and the left grasping the bow and two or three polished assegais, stood a few strong fellows, the forlorn hope of the fray. In the midst of the crowd, like Norman Ramsay’s troop begirt by French cavalry--to compare small things with great--rose and fell the chubby, thickset forms of Muinyi Wazira and his four Wak’hutu, who, undaunted by numbers, were dealing death to nose and scalp. Charge! Mavi ya Gnombe (“Bois de Vache”) charge! On! Mashuzi (“Fish Fry-soup”) on! Bite, Kuffan Kwema (“To die is good”) bite, Smite, Na daka Mali (“I want wealth”) smite! At length, when “Blood (t’was from the nose) began to flow,”