May 1st, 1873, at dawn, Dr. David Livingstone died. In fact, on April
29th, the little caravan had reached the village of Tchitambo, to the
south of the lake. The doctor was carried there on a litter. On the
30th, in the night, under the influence of excessive grief, he moaned
out this complaint, that was hardly heard: "Oh, dear! dear!" and he
fell back from drowsiness.
At the end of an hour he called his servant, Souzi, asking for some
medicine, then murmuring in a feeble voice: "It is well. Now you can
go."
Toward four o'clock in the morning, Souzi and five men of the escort
entered the doctor's hut. David Livingstone, kneeling near his bed,
his head resting on his hands, seemed to be engaged in prayer. Souzi
gently touched his cheek; it was cold. David Livingstone was no more.
Nine months after, his body, carried by faithful servants at the price
of unheard-of fatigues, arrived at Zanzibar. On April 12th, 1874, it
was buried in Westminster Abbey, among those of her great men, whom
England honors equally with her kings.
CHAPTER XV.
WHERE A MANTICORE MAY LEAD.
To what plank of safety will not an unfortunate being cling? Will not
the eyes of the condemned seek to seize any ray of hope, no matter how
vague?
So it had been with Mrs. Weldon. One can understand what she must have
felt when she learned, from Alvez himself, that Dr.
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