from penetrating into the great central valley.  Of the chiefs who escaped, he said, “They love Mosilikatse, let them live with him:  the Zambesi is my line of defense;” and men were placed all along it as sentinels.  When he heard of our wish to visit him, he did all he could to assist our approach.  Sechele, Sekomi, and Lechulatebe owed their lives to his clemency; and the latter might have paid dearly for his obstructiveness.  Sebituane knew every thing that happened in the country, for he had the art of gaining the affections both of his own people and of strangers.  When a party of poor men came to his town to sell their hoes or skins, no matter how ungainly they might be, he soon knew them all.  A company of these indigent strangers, sitting far apart from the Makololo gentlemen around the chief, would be surprised to see him come alone to them, and, sitting down, inquire if they were hungry.  He would order an attendant to bring meal, milk, and honey, and, mixing them in their sight, in order to remove any suspicion from their minds, make them feast, perhaps for the first time in their lives, on a lordly dish.  Delighted beyond measure with his affability and liberality, they felt their hearts warm toward him, and gave him all the information in their power; and as he never allowed a party of strangers to go away without giving every one of them, servants and all, a present, his praises were sounded far and wide.  “He has a heart! he is wise!” were the usual expressions we heard before we saw him.

He was much pleased with the proof of confidence we had shown in bringing our children, and promised to take us to see his country, so that we might choose a part in which to locate ourselves.  Our plan was, that I should remain in the pursuit of my objects as a missionary, while Mr. Oswell explored the Zambesi to the east.  Poor Sebituane, however, just after realizing what he had so long ardently desired, fell sick of inflammation of the lungs, which originated in and extended from an old wound got at Melita.  I saw his danger, but, being a stranger, I feared to treat him medically, lest, in the event of his death, I should be blamed by his people.  I mentioned this to one of his doctors, who said, “Your fear is prudent and wise; this people would blame you.”  He had been cured of this complaint, during the year before, by the Barotse making a large number of free incisions in the chest.  The Makololo doctors, on the other hand, now scarcely cut the skin.  On the Sunday afternoon in which he died, when our usual religious service was over, I visited him with my little boy Robert.  “Come near,” said Sebituane, “and see if I am any longer a man.  I am done.”  He was thus sensible of the dangerous nature of his disease, so I ventured to assent, and added a single sentence regarding hope after death.  “Why do you speak of death?” said one of a relay of fresh doctors; “Sebituane will never die.”  If I had persisted, the impression would have been produced that by speaking about it I wished him to die.  After sitting with him some time, and commending him to the mercy of God, I rose to depart, when the dying chieftain, raising himself up a little from his prone position, called a servant, and said, “Take Robert to Maunku (one of his wives), and tell her to give him some milk.”  These were the last words of Sebituane.