Let each reader fancy to himself the expanding view of the silver grey waters of the lake; its miniature waves lifting their snowy crests as they felt the force of the gentle gale; the sun reflected a thousand times as, rising above the eastern horizon, it slanted over the heads of the joyous rowers and mirrored itself in the tiny waves and troughs. On the left, the lake-shore studded with many a hummock cone and blue hill, and between each the shadowy forest glades; and along the margin of the shore a strip of white sand, laved by whiter foam. And now the canoe is quite out of the river current, and points up the lake, with glorious scenery awaiting it on the right, brown rock mountains receding from the water’s edge to lofty altitudes, while their slopes contiguous are enriched with tier upon tier of luxuriant and green mimosa, and tamarind of darker green. This was the prospect which greeted them after their venturesome flight with a canoe belonging to other people, after rowing over one hundred miles in twenty-five hours, down the river.
But they were not safe yet; their pursuers might be behind them, and it behoved them to row far and long before they could be said to be quite out of danger. Selim and Kalulu were relieved by Abdullah and Niani, Simba and Moto were tireless.
They followed the right shore of the lake for over eight hours; but at the end of that time they drew in shore under the lee of an island situated in the middle of a snug picturesque bay, and hiding their boat deep among the reeds, disembarked at last on the island to shake each other by the hand, to enjoy in full the happy thoughts and the serenity of mind which the knowledge of their secured freedom had created within them.
“Ah, Kalulu, we are safe!” cried Selim in a transport of joy, as he drew the young chief to his side and sat down to rest with him.
“Yes, my brother, we are safe for the present; but Zanzibar is yet far, is it not?”
“Yes, about five months; but I think, after we reach Usowa we need fear nothing more. Moto tells me the people are kind to the Arabs. But say, is not this beautiful?” asked Selim.
“Yes; but let us go to the top of the island, whence we can see all around,” said Kalulu; “and we can sleep in safety, and have the breeze to cool us much better than below here.”
In a few minutes they had gained the highest point of the island, and sitting under the shade of a far-spreading mimosa, Selim, having taken at a glance the unusual beauties of the scene, proceeded to point them out to his companion one after another, saying:
“Follow me, Kalulu, and let me point out to thee what I consider pretty. Look at the water of Liemba, so beautiful, so clear, so deep; and, does it not shame the sky with its blueness where it is deep? And look at the shores dotted with the little hills! They stand apart from each other, as if each was the abode of some spirit. They also image themselves in the deep water, as if they wished to see, as our vain women do, how pretty they look. Are they not pretty? Seest thou not how each hill is like a Kituta hut; but, unlike the straw with which the Watuta thatch their houses, the great Sky-spirit has thatched these with beautiful trees, and sent the lake winds to make music among the leaves and branches. And look between the hills, Kalulu; follow the winding valleys with thine eyes, until they rest where the valleys are lost in those grey mountain folds. If thou wert close to any of those valleys, thou wouldst hear the brooks sing and laugh as they race over rock and pebble towards the deep Liemba.”
After a little while he continued, more seriously: “The music of the trees and the music of the brooks mingling together speak to us children of the Arabs of the goodness of the Sky-spirit. If thine hearing was fine enough, and we two were under those trees of the valley yonder, thou wouldst be able to hear the voice of my mind and heart sing in sympathy with the brook and the trees; and just as my heart sings out of sympathy with their voices, so do the birds sing. Hast thou never thought how pretty and sweet sound the songs of birds, Kalulu? I have often, when in the mangoe grove near my father’s house, seated on a carpet of young and tender grass, watched a little bird coming with a graceful, easy flight, and listened to it singing as it flew. I have watched it turning its little head about so cunningly to see if I was there, and I have seen it looking for a comfortable twig to rest upon, and when it was satisfied I have heard it utter a wondrous melody, and this it seemed to do by simply opening its mouth and erecting its head, and I could not imitate it, try how I might. But though my voice failed, my heart joined with it in song; and if all the little singing birds sang together, my heart could sing as free, as clear as they.