Since yesterday a mother carries in her arms her little infant, dead from hunger. She will not separate from it.
Our route is strewn with dead bodies. The smallpox rages with new violence.
We have just passed near a tree. To this tree slaves were attached by the neck. They were left there to die of hunger.
_From May 16th to 24th_.--I am almost exhausted, but I have no right to give up. The rains have entirely ceased. We have days of "hard marching." That is what the traders call the "tirikesa," or afternoon march. We must go faster, and the ground rises in rather steep ascents.
We pass through high shrubs of a very tough kind. They are the "nyassi," the branches of which tear the skin off my face, whose sharp seeds penetrate to my skin, under my dilapidated clothes. My strong boots hav
