. . . . . Ali Nedjar was gone! - drowned! He never rose again.
. . .
I was dreadfully shocked at the loss of my good soldier - he had been
much beloved by us all. We could hardly believe that he was really gone
for ever. Who would now lead the song in the moonlight nights? or be the
first in every race?
I had quickly thrown every life-buoy into the river, as Howarti,
Mohammed, and others of the best swimmers had vainly plunged after Ali,
and were now searching fruitlessly for his body, carried away by the
powerful current. The boat was sent after them immediately, and they
were brought on board.
The mirth of the diahbeeah had vanished; the general favourite had so
suddenly disappeared from among us, that no one spoke, The women sat
down and cried.
His knapsack and rifle were brought to me, and a list having been taken
of his clothes and ammunition, I cut his name, "Ali," upon the stock of
his snider, which I reserved for the best man I should be able to
select. There was no better epitaph for so good a soldier than his name
engraved on his trusty rifle.
That evening every one was sad, and my people all refused their
food. . . .
On the following day, the wind and stream being adverse, we had much
trouble in avoiding the sand-banks, and our progress was so slow that we
only reached the base of the rocky hill Regiaf.
