Niger

Surely not. Inspired by this fine admixture of
sceptical doubt of his own mental equipment and
hazy acceptance of his physical importance, Mungo,
who had sunk to the ground overpowered, stood up
again. He felt strangely and serenely reinvigorated.
A conviction came upon him that help was close
at hand.
Nor was he mistaken. At a village a little further
on he came on the two shepherds. Both had
escaped the robbers, both stared at Mungo as an
apparition from the dead. Then they guided him
on through the hills for the rest of the day and at
sunset brought him to the gates of much-desired
Sibidooloo—hill-defended, in a fertile valley.
Here his luck held. The headman—all over
Manding known as the Mansa—sat on a mat in his
hut, smoking his pipe, when Mungo was brought
before him. All the time Mungo was telling his
tale of highway robbery and despoilment, the black
ruler sent up clouds of contemplative smoke. But
he proved less phlegmatic than his appearance
warranted. At the end of Mungo’s recital he
commanded him to sit down, and swore that
everything of which he had been robbed would be
returned to him. 4 Give the white man a drink of
water,’ he concluded magnanimously.
For two days Mungo sat in Sibidooloo, waiting
to hear news of his missing property. But pro¬
visions were very scarce, and he anxious to press on
to the coast. He interviewed the Mansa again,
and that individual, smoke-blowing, gave him
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