“Dead, is he? Have ye seen a caravan lately going by here towards Unyanyembe?”
“No—none for many days.”
“Health, health to ye, my friends!”
“Health, health!” was the response.
Our friends strode on until they got beyond the cultivation and were deep in the forest again, when Moto turned round and said:
“Kalulu is lost!”
“Lost! Oh, Moto! must we give him up for ever?” asked Selim.
“I fear so. I thought that caravan belonged to Arabs. If they were Arabs they would have come this way, and those people at the gate would have seen them. But I think now that camp belonged to the Waruga-ruga (bandits). And where have they gone to? Are they from Ugala or Ukonongo? Were those people Wazavila or wild Wanyamwezi? They were not Arabs, or they would have come this way. We are too far away to go back, and we might hunt for Kalulu years and years among the tribes about here without finding him. The bandits kill all men as soon as they catch them, if they cannot make slaves of them. They are never seen. They are everywhere, but nowhere when ye desire to see them. No; Kalulu is lost, and unless we want to lose ourselves, we must go on to Unyanyembe.”
This was a sudden shock to the Arab boys and to Simba. They had nourished a lively hope that their friend might be found, but they were now sternly told that their friend was “lost.”
“Poor Kalulu!” said Selim. “He is not lost to me. I will build him up—from his feet to his head, with all his fine high courage, quick, generous temper, and his warm heart, in my memory, where he shall dwell as the noblest and best I have ever met. Until I die I shall remember him as the truest friend and kindest brother.”