“This is a camp of death.”
“And these negroes?”
“These negroes are asleep, and they will never awaken again.”
“I don’t understand——”
“They are stricken with the sleeping-sickness.[[24]] They are from the shores of the great lakes, where this terrible sickness is always very prevalent, and every one of them who has not died of the smallpox has been stricken down with it. I have only one boy left.”
It just occurred to Stasch that when he was sliding down the slope not one of those negroes had moved, nor even budged, and that during the whole conversation they were still sleeping, some with their heads propped up against the rocks and others with their heads hanging down on their chests.
“They are asleep and will never awaken?” he inquired, as if he could scarcely believe his ears.
Linde responded:
“Oh, this Africa is a house of death.”
But the remaining words were interrupted by the tramping of the horses, which, frightened by something in the jungle, hopped along, their feet being hobbled, to the edge of the cliff, so as to be nearer the people and the firelight.