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 
t 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 two 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. 
