One cannot imagine what those horrible hecatombs are, when a powerful chief’s memory must be fitly honored among these tribes of Central Africa.  Cameron says that more than a hundred victims were thus sacrificed at the funeral ceremonies of the King of Kassongo’s father.

It is also the custom for the defunct king to be dressed in his most costly clothes before being laid in his tomb.  But this time, as there was nothing left of the royal person except a few burnt bones, it was necessary to proceed in another manner.  A willow manikin was made, representing Moini Loungga sufficiently well, perhaps advantageously, and in it they shut up the remains the combustion had spared.  The manikin was then clothed with the royal vestments—­we know that those clothes are not worth much—­and they did not forget to ornament it with Cousin Benedict’s famous spectacles.  There was something terribly comic in this masquerade.

The ceremony would take place with torches and with great pomp.  The whole population of Kazounde, native or not, must assist at it.

When the evening had come, a long cortege descended the principal street, from the tchitoka as far as the burial place.  Cries, funeral dances, magicians’ incantations, noises from instruments and detonations from old muskets from the arsenals—­nothing was lacking in it.

Jose-Antonio Alvez, Coimbra, Negoro, the Arab traders and their overseers had increased the ranks of Kazounde’s people.  No one had yet left the great lakoni.  Queen Moini would not permit it, and it would not be prudent to disobey the orders of one who was trying the trade of sovereign.

The body of the king, laid in a palanquin, was carried in the last ranks of the cortege.  It was surrounded by his wives of the second order, some of whom were going to accompany him beyond this life.  Queen Moini, in great state, marched behind what might be called the catafalque.  It was positively night when all the people arrived on the banks of the brook; but the resin torches, shaken by the porters, threw great bursts of light over the crowd.

The ditch was seen distinctly.  It was carpeted with black, living bodies, for they moved under the chains that bound them to the ground.  Fifty slaves were waiting there till the torrent should close over them.  The majority were young natives, some resigned and mute, others giving a few groans.  The wives all dressed as for a fete, and who must perish, had been chosen by the queen.

One of these victims, she who bore the title of second wife, was bent on her hands and knees, to serve as a royal footstool, as she had done in the king’s lifetime.  The third wife came to hold up the manikin, while the fourth lay at its feet, in the guise of a cushion.

Before the manikin, at the end of the ditch, a post, painted red, rose from the earth.  To this post was fastened a white man, who was going to be counted also among the victims of these bloody obsequies.