THE STORM. 



123 



fluid into the canoes. The waves began to rise, the rain 

 descended, at first in warning-drops, then in torrents, 

 and had the wind steadily arisen, the cockle-shell craft 

 never could have lived through the short, chopping sea 

 which characterises the Tanganyika in heavy weather. 

 The crew, though blinded by the showers, and frightened 

 by the occasional gusts, held their own gallantly enough ; 

 at times, however, the moaning cry, " 0 my wife ! " 

 showed what was going on within. Bombay, a noted 

 Voltairian in fine weather, spent the length of that wild 

 night in reminiscences of prayer. I sheltered myself 

 from the storm under my best friend, the Mackintosh, 

 and thought of the far-famed couplet of Hafiz, — with 

 its mystic meaning I will not trouble the reader : — 



" This collied night, these horrid waves, these gusts that sweep the whirling 

 deep ! 



What reck they of our evil plight, who on the shore securely sleep ? " 



Fortunatelv the rain beat down wind and sea, otherwise 

 nothing short of a miracle could have preserved us 

 for a dry death. 



That night, however, was the last of our " sea- 

 sorrows." After floating about during the latter hours 

 of darkness, under the land, but uncertain where to 

 disembark, we made at 7 A.m., on the 11th May, 

 Wafanya, our former station in ill-famed Urundi. 

 Tired and cramped by the night's work, we pitched tents, 

 and escaping from the gaze of the insolent and intrusive 

 crowd, we retired to spend a few hours in sleep. 



I was suddenly aroused by Mabruki, who, rushing 

 into the tent, thrust my sword into my hands, and 

 exclaimed that the crews were scrambling into their 

 boats. I went out and found everything in dire con- 

 fusion. The sailors hurrying here and there, were 

 embarking their mats and cooking-pots, some were in 



