THE LAST FRONTIER 



other side the Isiola. A little breeze with a touch of 

 coolness breathed down from distant unseen Kenia. 

 We plodded on through the grass quite happily, 

 noting the different animals coming out to the cool 

 of the evening. The line of brush that marked the 

 course of the Isiola came imperceptibly nearer until 

 we could make out the white gleam of the porters' 

 tents and wisps of smoke curling upward. 



Then a small black mass disengaged itself from the 

 camp and came slowly across the prairie in our direc- 

 tion. As it approached we made it out to be our 

 Monumwezis, twenty strong. The news of the lions 

 had reached them, and they were coming to meet us. 



They were huddled in a close knot, their heads 

 inclined toward the centre. Each man carried up- 

 right a peeled white wand. They moved in abso- 

 lute unison and rhythm, on a slanting zigzag in our 

 direction: first three steps to the right, then three to 

 the left, with a strong stamp of the foot between. 

 Their bodies swayed together. Sulimani led them, 

 dancing backward, his wand upheld. 



"Sheeka!" he enunciated in a piercing half whis- 

 per. 



And the swaying men responded in chorus, half 

 hushed, rumbling, with strong aspiration. 



"Goom wop! goom zoop/" 



When fifty yards from us, however, the forma- 

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