before the closed
gates of a fortified town belonging to Ibrahim Ali, the Mandingo chief
of Kya.

It was some time before our shouts and beating on the gates aroused
the watchman to answer our appeal, for it was the hour of prayer, and
Ibrahim was at his devotions. At last, pestered by their dalliance, I
fired my double-barrelled gun, whose loud report I knew was more
likely to reach the ear of a praying Mussulman. I did not reckon
improperly, for hardly had the echoes died away before the great
war-drum of the town was rattled, while a voice from a loophole
demanded our business. I left the negotiation for our entry to the
Fullah chief, who forthwith answered that "the _Ali-Mami's_ caravan,
laden with goods, demanded hospitality;" while Ali-Ninpha informed the
questioner, that Don Teodore, the "white man of Kambia," craved
admittance to the presence of Ibrahim the faithful.

In a short time the wicket creaked, and Ibrahim himself put forth his
head to welcome the strangers, and to admit them, one by one, into the
town. His reception of myself and Ali-Ninpha was extremely cordial;
but the Fullah chief was addressed with cold formality, for the
Mandingoes have but little patience with the well-known haughtiness of
their national rivals.

Ali-Ninpha had been Ibrahim's playmate before he migrated to the
coast. Their friendship still existed in primitive sincerity, and the
chieftain's highest ambition was to honor the companion and guest of
his friend. Accordingly, his wives and females were summoned to
prepare my quarters with comfort and luxury. The best house was chosen
for my lodging. The earthen floor was spread with mats. Hides were
stretched on _adobe_ couches, and a fire was kindled to purify the
atmosphere. Pipes were furnished my companions; and, while a hammock
was slung for my repose before supper, a chosen henchman was
dispatched to seek the fattest sheep for that important meal.

Ibrahim posted sentinels around my hut, so that my slumbers were
uninterrupted, until Ali-Ninpha roused me with the pleasant news that
the bowls of rice and stews were smoking on the mat in the chamber of
Ibrahim himself. Ninpha knew my tastes and superintended the cook. He
had often jested at the "white man's folly," when my stomach turned at
some disgusting dish of the country; so that the pure roasts and
broils of well-known pieces slipped down my throat with the appetite
of a trooper. While these messes were under discussion,