“Regard the pagan’s hair,” said another. “He had better not let the _Kabaka_ see him,” said a third. “He is surely a pagan slave—worth about a goat,” remarked a fourth. “Not he. I would not buy him for a ripe banana,” ventured a fifth. I looked up at Saramba, and half fancied that he paled. Poor Saramba! “As soon as they are gone, off goes that mop, and we will dress you in white cloth,” said Safeni, the coxswain, compassionately. But Baraka, one of the boatmen, an incorrigible scoffer, said, “What is the use? If we give him cloth, will he wear it? No; he will roll it up and tie it with a piece of string, and save it for his mammy, or sell it in Usukuma for a goat.” To my surprise the boatmen endeavoured to impress the fact on Saramba’s mind that the _Kabaka_ was a special personal friend of theirs; that all these cattle, goats, and fowls were the _Kabaka’s_ usual gifts to Wangwana, and they endeavoured, with a reckless disregard for accuracy, to enumerate fabulous instances of his generosity to a number of other Safenis, Sarbokos, Barakas, and Zaidis, all natives, like themselves, of Zanzibar. Let Englishmen never henceforth indulge in the illusion, or lay the flattering unction to their self-love, that they are the only people who have studied the art of “chaff.” The Zanzibaris are perfect in the art, as the sordid barbarian Saramba discovered to his cost. The ninth hour of the day approached. We had bathed, brushed, cleaned ourselves, and were prepared externally and mentally for the memorable hour when we should meet the Foremost Man of Equatorial Africa. Two of the _Kabaka’s_ pages, clad in a costume semi-Kingwana and semi-Kiganda, came to summon us—the Kingwana part being the long white shirt of Zanzibar, folded with a belt or band about the loins, the Kiganda part being the Sohari doti cloth depending from the right shoulder to the feet. “The _Kabaka_ invites you to the burzah,” said they. Forthwith we issue from our courtyard, five of the boat’s crew on each side of me armed with Snider rifles. We reach a short broad street, at the end of which is a hut. Here the _Kabaka_ is seated with a multitude of chiefs, Wakungu[12] and Watongoleh, ranked from the throne in two opposing kneeling or seated lines, the ends being closed in by drummers, guards, executioners, pages, &c. &c. As we approached the nearest group, it opened, and the drummers beat mighty sounds; Tori’s drumming being conspicuous from its sharper beat. The Foremost Man of Equatorial Africa rises and advances, and all the kneeling and seated lines rise—generals, colonels, chiefs, cooks, butlers, pages, executioners, &c. &c. The _Kabaka_, a tall, clean-faced, large-eyed, nervous-looking, thin man, clad in a tarbush, black robe, with a white shirt belted with gold, shook my hands warmly and impressively, and, bowing not ungracefully, invited me to be seated on an iron stool. I waited for him to show the example, and then I and all the others seated ourselves.