THE FORCED MARCH. 691 



" Yes, he went away a long time ago." 



There could be no doubt about it : this white man just from 

 Manyuema — old, gray, sick — must be Livingstone. The news 

 sent the ardent blood of Mr. Stanley bounding through his 

 veins. His men appreciated his enthusiasm more fully than we 

 could have expected of them. 



After a short march they came into the borders of Uhha. 

 Here again they were subjected to heavy taxes, and in two days 

 Mr. Stanley had paid over to the petty chieftains no less than 

 two whole bales of his precious cloth, for the liberty of walking 

 on the ground. He was tempted strongly to fight, but that 

 would endanger the expedition ; he might be killed : then who 

 would relieve the sick man at Ujiji? That would not do ; but 

 he would be robbed of all before he reached him : then how could 

 he help him ? That must not be. He determined on making 

 forced wilderness marches across the inhospitable country, avoid- 

 ing all villages. Provisions were prepared for four days under the 

 shadow of the chief who had taxed him. He knew that there 

 were numbers of them ahead who would do the same thing if 

 they saw him ; they must not have that pleasure. It was better 

 to bribe a guide than be robbed by chiefs. So he bribed a guide, 

 and making a noiseless departure in the night from the village 

 of the king's brother, he began a long, silent, forced march, and 

 in three days they crossed the Mkuti, a glorious little river, 

 whose rippling, babbling waters seemed to enjoy the joke which 

 the white man had played on the Wahha. 



The next day brought them to the brow of the hill, whence 

 looking away westward the eager eye of enthusiastic Stanley 

 caught the first view of Lake Tanganyika. It was nearly the 

 same spot from which Burton obtained the view which he has 

 so eloquently described. " Nothing, in sooth," he says, "could 

 be more picturesque than this first view of the Tanganyika lake, 

 as it lay in the lap of the mountains basking in the gorgeous 

 tropical sunshine. Below and beyond a short foreground of 

 rugged and precipitous hill-fold, down which the footpath zig- 

 zags painfully, a narrow strip of emerald green, never sere and 

 marvellously fertile, shelves toward a ribbon of glistening yellow 

 sand, here bordered by sedgy rushes, there cleanly and clearly 

 cut by breaking wavelets. Farther in front stretch the waters, 



