DISASTER AND DISAPPOINTMENT 147 



one snow-peak and then of another. Though the 

 season was getting late (it was August 3), the 

 weather seemed to promise fairly, and we had high 

 hopes of climbing those slopes of snow, where no 

 white man had ever yet set foot, or, if that were not 

 possible, we would in any case bring back photo- 

 graphs of extraordinary interest. 



Watching a glorious crimson sunset, the first clear 

 view to the west that we had had for many months, 

 we were beginning to think that life was really 

 worth living, and that there were worse places in the 

 world than Ruwenzori, when fate descended upon 

 us — or, more correctly, ascended to us — in the form 

 of an anxious messenger from the camp below. 

 The Belgian, in descending the valley, had been 

 attacked by a large horde of natives, many of them 

 armed with guns, and, having lost one man killed 

 and five wounded, had retreated up the valley again 

 to our camp, where he said it was no longer safe to 

 remain, so we had no choice but to rejoin the rest of 

 the party. To be compelled to turn back at the last 

 moment, when we were within a few hours' march of 

 our goal, was one of the most cruel pieces of ill-luck I 

 have ever known, and I confess to having been very 

 near the shedding of bitter tears of disappointment. 

 Whilst an enormous Jupiter sank into the west, the 

 full moon sailed up over the now clear snow-peaks 

 into a sky of regal splendour, and, with better 

 fortune, we should have been as happy as ever we 

 were in our lives. 



10 — 2 



