Niger

On the gth of June he and his two companions
reached the house in Tendacunda where the aged
Seniora, that relict of a coastal trader’s embraces,
kept her house. She stared at Mungo. A white
man, ragged like that and bearded like this ? He
was undoubtedly a Moorish imposter.
Mungo succeeded in proving his identity and his
innocence, and then sat down in a house with
European furnishings to hear the story of his own
demise. The news had drifted through the black
kingdoms back to Gambia that, like Houghton, he
had been killed by the Moors in Ludamar : none
had ever expected to hear of or see him again.
Neither Demba nor Johnson had reached the
Gambia ; so far as Mungo was to know, those
two servants of his never did reach the coast,
slain or enslaved in the lands of the barbarous
Moors.
But already in these lands the dirt and disease
and the long days of torture were enwrapping
themselves in Mungo’s mind in the glamour of a
far-off tale.
Next morning one of the Ainslies came riding
through the woods to carry Mungo to Pisania :
the news of his return had spread like fire. Laidley
was trading down the coast, but would soon return.
Mungo rode to Pisania on horseback, the impressed
Karfa trotting at his heels. Beyond the trading
station as they emerged from the woods they saw
the Ainslie trading schooner swinging on the
sluggish Gambia tide, and Karfa, who had never
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