LIVING STONIA—BL AN TYRE — Q UILLIMANE. 447 
As we moved down the winding river we saw that it 
washed deserted shores, upon which the most common 
sights were the fields of battles that had been waged 
and wen. Morambala, which had frowned upon us 
during the previous night, was approached. 
Stark scenes of devastation expanded from the river’s 
brink. Over the land the skull and crossbones might 
have fitly waved. 
It would be impossible to exaggerate the untold 
wretchedness which has made the Shire valley a vale of 
blood and of tears. Sad indeed has been the fate of its 
persecuted people. The ruthless work of fire and sword 
has driven them hither and thither. Slavery and war 
here found a congenial soil; and even to-day may be 
seen on the river’s banks the white-robed prince of 
slaves. 
Close upon the heels of heathen slavers, more excus¬ 
able, perhaps, than any, advanced the bristling phalanx, 
paid by Christian gold, to strengthen the power of the 
harsh half-caste chief, and so rid the land —where no 
other people can soiv or reap —of its struggling but 
natural sons of toil ! Thus fields are fertilised by the 
bodies of the slain, and the mocking sun looks down 
and bakes the bare bones until they return to their 
original dust. 
The boats speed on, and we see gardens laid waste 
while the river runs green with their despoiled produce. 
Village after village is passed, all devastated by fire, 
showing rows of roofless huts, like heaps of smouldering 
straw. Far away we see leaping into happy daylight, 
seething flames that danced over the ruin of some 
luckless inland village. Fire, the soldier’s only constant 
friend, is here left to complete the wreck that man 
began. , 
Could these poor sufferers be worse if civilisation had 
never approached their land ? Of course, we must not 
forget that there are two tellings for every story. I, 
perhaps, have experienced that which enables me to 
speak only of one, which, unhappily, is on the side of 
sorrow. 
