TWO DIANAS IN SOMALILAND 215 



There was no reply, and Cecily had expended all the 

 lingo she knew. 



The man went on suffering all night, and we did all 

 we could, putting mustard leaves on his side and 

 keeping him warm, for the nights here were bitterly 

 cold. Ever and again we tried to force champagne 

 between his set teeth. Of no avail. He died about 

 five o'clock in the morning. Clarence said it was 

 Kismet, but I think, and always shall, it was a newt. 

 Anyway, it was something swallowed in that filthy 

 water, too much even for the inner mechanism of a 

 Somali. 



Cecily and I retired to get some sleep if possible, and 

 the men buried their unfortunate comrade. We did 

 not attend, as it is always so intensely piteous a 

 ceremony — a burial without a coffin — at least to me 

 it seems far worse than seeing a coffin put into the 

 earth. I gave Clarence a blanket to wrap our follower 

 in. He seemed amused, and certainly did not use it, 

 for I saw him lapped in it a night or so later. I 

 rebuked him, but he said it was a different blanket. 

 All men are liars, and though an estimable servant, 

 our head-man was no exception to the rule. 



We investigated to see that the funeral had been 

 conducted properly, and ordered more stones and 

 brushwood to be piled on top, such a rampart indeed 

 that Clarence said we were giving our dead friend the 

 grave of a chief. Then, in the late afternoon we 

 marched away, leaving the lonely stockade behind us. 

 Every man of the caravan threw some grass upon the 

 grave and, touching their ears, prayed to Allah. 



