On the 30th of May, 1827, I took leave of my friends, (at least, such friends as a white can have among negroes,) and we set out, about ten in the morning, after eating a little rice, which Ibrahim had prepared for me. Lamfia, my new guide, was accompanied by one of his wives, who was to cook for us on the journey: she carried on her head a bag of salt, some calabashes, and an earthen pot. Our caravan was composed of eight individuals. Ibrahim and the Foulah Guibi came with me as far as the bridge across the Tankisso; my old guide carried my umbrella and my satala; the latter contained seven or eight rice loaves baked in the sun, which had been given me on my departure: Ibrahim thought proper to appropriate to himself two of these loaves without my knowledge. I mentioned the circumstance to Lamfia, who censured Ibrahim’s dishonesty, and asked me whether he had eaten much of my merchandise, a phrase employed to express any fraud or breach of confidence. Ibrahim and Guibi parted from us at the bridge: they again recommended me to the care of Lamfia, telling him that, as my resources were but scanty, he must be moderate in his demands upon me, and that God would reward him. They seemed sorry to leave me, and after we had separated they turned round and called loudly after me, _Salam alékoum, Abd-allahi_: (Abd-allahi was my assumed name). They repeated this salutation three times, and then they exclaimed, _Allam-Kiselak!_ (May God preserve thee on thy journey!) But though both uttered the same words, yet I could easily perceive that Guibi’s regret was more sincere than Ibrahim’s.