Our first halt was by a pretty stream, under the Pass of Marókolohy. The men spread themselves out along the water and soon had their little fires blazing and the rice boiling in their iron pots and tin saucepans. We ourselves rested under a tree: and a small supply of English stores on this and similar journeys, tins of soup and meat and vegetables, good cocoa and first-rate tea, rendered us independent of surrounding circumstances and satisfied our English tastes. The ridge behind us was bold and high. When we climbed to the summit, we travelled some distance along the crest and found an excellent station for observations. Crossing a second ridge called Kalomainty, we descended into a green valley with a stream of water. At the north end of the valley the dried grass was blazing furiously, under the strong wind and it was not easy to avoid the flames. More than once our men had to run for it, and but for the hardness of their feet would have suffered from the hot ashes and stones on which they trod. Crossing a third ridge, we passed down a rocky valley and entered a piece of country, like an English park, well watered by the River Andránobé. All day the loneliness was most complete. Not a bird started from the brake, not an animal appeared in the wood. The silence was intense and Nature was here in complete wildness: for untold ages has she had her will: and calm, still beauty is the result. We had only one trouble, a plague of flies. We were followed by swarms of creatures with the look of a fly, but with the power of biting and stinging like a musquito. They settled everywhere, on the hands, the neck, the face: and unless soon driven off, inflicted an irritating bite. The men suffered from them as much as ourselves. Very strangely they disappeared at sunset and only a few followed us next day. It was just at sundown that we crossed the shoulder of a hill between two bends of the Andranobe, and encamped on its western arm under a fine wooded hill. We pitched our tents upon a terrace which overhangs the stream: the men lit their fires, ten in number, on the sandy bed, where they resolved to sleep. And it added to the charm of our position, that as the moon rose full behind us the whole body of our bearers gathered together for evening prayers: sang with spirit their plaintive Malagasy hymns, said a hearty Amen to the words of the 91st Psalm: and cast themselves on the protection of that Saviour, to whom (they said explicitly) they have found it good to pray. Let none say that in this prosaic age, the days of romance have passed away. To me the simple realities of life often bring scenes as romantic as any which fiction can pourtray.