80 THE BONDS OF AFRICA 



the common burial of their existences. There 

 was X., the Native Commissioner, and Y., the 

 trader and elephant hunter, and Z — well, who Z. 

 was, not even the doctor or X. or Y. could tell 

 you. 



Presently cigarettes were alight and Medicine, 

 the host, shouted for his native servants. " Well, 

 you chaps," he remarked, as he wearily rose in 

 his chair, " what is it to be — ' Black and White ' 

 or morphia? " 



"Morphia," replied the end of the alphabet, 

 and morphia they all took. 



Maniacs, you will call them, and so they were. 

 But remember their banishment and the infinite 

 monotony wiiich was the cause of their madness, 

 and condemn them not too harshly unless you, 

 too, have tasted of the fruits of exile. 



One day the hand of Y. will falter when the 

 monarch of all beasts comes tearing through the 

 forest, his great trunk raised and a badly placed 

 bullet goading him on to kill the meagre, terrified 

 thing in front of him. And then, although Y. 

 has killed his hundred elephants, he will meet 

 his fate in the most agonized terror conceivable. 

 The Native Commissioner will be sent home by a 

 watchful Administration, with our medical friend 

 to tend him. 



As for Z., poor fellow, he has already finished 

 his last "ulendo,"* for the dread wings of sleep- 

 ing sickness fastened on his wasted frame and 

 carried the driftwood away to another great 

 ocean, on the unknown waters of which we must 

 all embark. 



I met such an one as Z. in the first place 

 close to the Luangwa one mid- day when the 

 sun scorched the very air, and the thermometer 

 * Ulendo, Chinyanga, lit. a journey. 



