The greater number of the women appeared very pretty, and laughingly smoked tobacco and "thang" in large black pipes. They appeared to be well formed, so far as the long and graceful robe permitted their figures to be seen, and wore a kind of kilt of calabash fibers fastened round their waists.
Six of them, though destined to be sacrificed, were by no means the least gay of the assembly. At the death of the sultan they were to be buried alive with him, so as to keep him company in his otherwise somewhat distressing solitude.
Doctor Ferguson, having taken all this in at a glance, advanced towards the monarch's couch. There he saw a man of about forty, perfectly brutalized by dissipation of all kinds, and for whom he could do nothing. His malady, which had lasted some years, was nothing but constant intoxication. This royal drunkard had by degrees lost consciousness, and all the ammonia in the world could not cure him.
The favorites and the women, bending their knees, bowed themselves down during this solemn visit. By means of a few drops of a strong cordial, the doctor for moment animated the stupefied body. The sultan moved, and for a corpse which had given no sign of existence for hours, to move at all was hailed with acclamation in honor of the doctor.
He, who had had enough of it, put his would-be worshipers aside by a rapid movement, and quitted the palace. He made towards the "Victoria," for it was now six o'clock.
Joe, during his master's absence, waited patiently at the foot of the ladder, the crowd paying him the greatest attention. As a true son of the moon he accepted the position. For a god he had the appearance of a brave man enough, not at all proud, even with young African ladies, who never ceased to stare at him. He also conversed amicably with them.
"Keep worshiping, ladies, keep it up," he said. "I am a pretty good sort of devil, although the son of a goddess."
They offered him propitiatory gifts, usually placed in the "mzimu" or fetish-houses. These consisted of barley
