The long
shadows and beautiful lights of evening were falling across the
hills far the other side the Isiola. A little breeze with a touch
of coolness breathed down from distant unseen Kenia. We plodded
on through the grass quite happily, noting the different animals
coming out to the cool of the evening. The line of brush that
marked the course of the Isiola came imperceptibly nearer until
we could make out the white gleam of the porters' tents and wisps
of smoke curling upward.
Then a small black mass disengaged itself from the camp and came
slowly across the prairie in our direction. As it approached we
made it out to be our Monumwezis, twenty strong. The news of the
lions had reached them, and they were coming to meet us. They
were huddled in a close knot, their heads inclined toward the
centre. Each man carried upright a peeled white wand. They moved
in absolute unison and rhythm, on a slanting zigzag in our
direction: first three steps to the right, then three to the
left, with a strong stamp of the foot between. Their bodies
swayed together. Sulimani led them, dancing backward, his wand
upheld.
"Sheeka!" he enunciated in a piercing half whistle.
And the swaying men responded in chorus, half hushed, rumbling,
with strong aspiration.
"Goom zoop! goom zoop!"
When fifty yards from us, however, the formation broke and they
rushed us with a yell.
