CHAP. III.] 
NIGHT VISIT OF FADEELA. 
135 
Possessing a share of sangfroid admirably adapted 
for African travel, Mrs. Baker was not a screamer , and 
never even whispered; in the moment of suspected 
danger, a touch of my sleeve was considered a sufficient 
warning. My hand had quietly drawn the revolver 
from under my pillow and noiselessly pointed it within 
two feet of the dark crouching object, before I asked, 
“Who is that V } No answer was given—until, upon 
repeating the question, with my finger touching gently 
upon the trigger ready to fire, a voice replied, “ Fa¬ 
deela.” Never had I been so near to a fatal shot! It 
was one of the black women of the party, who had 
crept into the tent for an asylum. Upon striking a 
light I found that the woman was streaming with 
blood, being cut in the most frightful manner with the 
coorbatch (whip of hippopotamus’s hide). Hearing the 
screams continued at some distance from the tent, I 
found my angels in the act of flogging two women; 
two men were holding each woman upon the ground 
by sitting upon her legs and neck, while two men with 
powerful whips operated upon each woman alternately. 
Their backs were cut to pieces, and they were literally 
covered with blood. The brutes had taken upon them¬ 
selves the task of thus punishing the women for a 
breach of discipline in being absent without leave. 
Fadeela had escaped before her punishment had been 
