VISITORS FROM OVER THE SEA I97 



was wearing a turban and had a black stump of a beard. But 

 apart from one or two big knives at the waist, there was no 

 sign of arms. 



*Shall we go ?' I asked Cecco. 



*Right.' 



We came out of the mangroves and went straight to meet 

 the twelve. We held the guns across our shoulders to indicate 

 our good intentions, but they were loaded and the safety- 

 catches were off. Our visitors were not aware of us until we 

 were fifty yards from them. That was a good sign. If they did 

 not know we were there they had not come to Dur Ghella 

 just for us. When one of them did notice us, it was with sur- 

 prise. He immediately told the others and they all turned to 

 look at us. Those last fifty yards were difficult. Cecco and I 

 smiled from ear to ear and I am sure that at that moment we 

 had the most stupid faces in the world. The twelve did not 

 smile at all. Not a sign. 



Finally, we were right up to them. We kept carefully to 

 one side. 



'Buon giorno,' Cecco began, trusting in an African- wide 

 knowledge of Italian. 



The negroes, who were tall, well-built and handsome, did 

 not flicker an eyelid. They stared at us. One of them, seem- 

 ingly the eldest, articulated two incomprehensible words. 



*Good morning,' said I, trying out my English, and 

 touching my forehead and heart as the Arabs do. 



All the negroes muttered something and touched their 

 foreheads and hearts. 



*They are Mussulmans,' I said to Cecco. 



*But they don't understand a word.' 



Tishermen?' I asked, going through the movements of 

 drawing in a net. 



No result. I made signs of fishing with a hook. 



