CHAPTER XIII 
LAST JOURNEY TO THE COAST 
From our camp at Mafulu a march of from five to 
six hours brought us to Foula. On our way we rested 
at alittle village, one of those belonging to the Foula 
people, but situated on the opposite ridge. ‘There I 
missed my prismatic compass, and was rather con- 
cerned, but I ordered a thorough search in the bags, 
and was glad to find it. At this village the natives 
were reluctant to move on, and I believe that they 
were aware we were about to have bad weather, for 
before we had gone much farther we were in the 
midst of a deluge. I accordingly paid off all the 
unwilling carriers and allowed them to return home, 
hoping to get more at Foula. There they told us 
that as the Delava River was swollen there was no 
crossing, so I went down to inspect it myself and 
found it in a most terrible state. The stream was 
full of tangled mangrove roots and treacherous with 
slimy ooze. It was a horrible and uninviting flood 
to enter, with its foul waters and its mosquitoes, and 
one knew that it was a veritable fever-trap. In we 
had to go, however, the natives making a terrible 
splashing. For the most part we were wading up 
to our hips in water, picking our way as best we 
could across the tangled mangrove roots, and occa- 
sionally slipping down between them to a depth of 
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