Mtesa has been meanwhile carelessly talking to his chiefs while the embassy addressed him, but suddenly he turns on the embassy his large glowing eyes, and speaks quickly and with decision:— “Tell Mirambo from me that I do not want his gifts, but I must have the head of his man who slew my chief Singiri a year ago, as he was returning from Zanzibar to Uganda, or I will hunt him up with more Waganda than there are trees in his country. Go!” Another party now comes up. A chief is dead, and they wish to know who shall succeed him, and they have brought his sons along with them, that the Emperor may make his choice. Mtesa smiles and asks his chiefs to name the successor. One names Bugomba, another Taniziwa, another Kaseje, another Sempa. The chiefs fail to agree, and Mtesa asks playfully, “Which shall be chief?” whereupon the majority name Taniziwa as elected, after which we have to hear the “Twiyanzis” of the favoured one, and his ardent vows of allegiance to the Emperor. Just at this moment appears a long procession of females, old and young, at the sight of whom the Emperor rises to his feet, and his example is followed by all. Curious to know who they are, we ask, and are told that they are descendants of Kamanya and Suna, wards and members of the imperial family. These ladies, it appears, know when to time their visits, and contrive to enter the levee late, as European ladies, to attract attention, are supposed to enter church late. As these ladies advance to the carpet, Mtesa greets each with a kind word, and after they are seated proceeds to them, seats himself in their laps, and embraces one after another. In return for these imperial courtesies, they afterwards present him with live fowls, which he is compelled to receive with his own hands, and pass over to a chief to hold, that he may not appear to despise any of them. Surely if such a despotic monarch can condescend to be so affable and kind to females, there must be some good in him. But the Emperor on this morning has caught a cold, and the watchful chiefs have been observing the little uneasiness, and forthwith half-a-dozen rush forward prone on their knees, and offer their head-cloths, into which the imperial nose may relieve itself. The Emperor playfully draws back in his chair, and says, “Oh, I don’t want all these.” “Well, take mine,” says one. “No, take mine, Kabaka; mine is white, and of fine soft cloth;” and Mtesa, prevailed upon by the whiteness and softness of the texture, takes it, and relieves his afflicted nose, and then hands the cloth back to its owner, who rubs it together hard, as though he wished to punish well the cause of the affliction.