We left Riba-Riba’s old chief, and his numerous progeny of boys and girls, and his wonderful subjects, encamped on their mountain-top, and journeyed on with rapid pace through tall forests, and along the crests of wooded ridges, down into the depths of gloomy dingles, and up again to daylight into view of sweeping circles of bearded ridges and solemn woods, to Ka-Bambarré. Even though this place had no other associations, it would be attractive and alluring for its innocent wildness; but associated as it is with Livingstone’s sufferings, and that self-sacrificing life he led here, I needed only to hear from Mwana Ngoy, son of Mwana Kusu,[4] “Yes, this is the place where the old white man stopped for many moons,” to make up my mind to halt. ----- Footnote 4: Mwana, _lord_; Kusu, _parrot_. ----- “Ah! he lived here, did he?” “Yes.” By this time the population of Ka-Bambarré, seeing their chief in conversation with a white stranger, had drawn round us under a palm- tree, and mats were spread for us to seat ourselves. “Did you know the old white man? Was he your father?” “He was not my father; but I knew him well.” “Eh, do you hear that?” he asked his people. “He says he knew him. Was he not a good man?” “Yes; very good.” “You say well. He was good to me, and he saved me from the Arabs many a time. The Arabs are hard men, and often he would step between them and me when they were hard on me. He was a good man, and my children were fond of him. I hear he is dead?” “Yes, he is dead.” “Where has he gone to?” “Above, my friend,” said I, pointing to the sky. “Ah,” said he breathlessly, and looking up, “did he come from above?” “No, but good men like him go above when they die.” We had many conversations about him. The sons showed me the house he had lived in for a long time when prevented from further wandering by the ulcers in his feet. In the village his memory is cherished, and will be cherished for ever. It was strange what a sudden improvement in the physiognomy of the native had occurred. In the district of Uhombo we had seen a truly debased negro type. Here we saw people of the Ethiopic negro type, worthy to rank next the more refined Waganda. Mwana Ngoy himself was nothing very remarkable. Age had deprived him of his good looks; but there were about him some exceedingly pretty women, with winsome ways about them that were quite charming. Mwana Ngoy, I suppose, is one of the vainest of vain men. I fancy I can see him now strutting about his village with his sceptral staff, an amplitude of grass cloth about him, which when measured gives exactly twenty-four square yards, drawn in double folds about his waist, all tags, tassels, and fringes, and painted in various colours, bronze and black and white and yellow, and on his head a plumy head-dress.