The candle was still burning, but the greater light of life had gone
out. Their great master, as they called him, was on his knees, his body
stretched forward, his head buried in his hands upon the pillow. With
silent awe, they stood apart and watched him, lest they should invade the
privacy of prayer. But he did not stir; there was not even the motion of
breathing, but a suspicious rigidity of inaction. Then one of them,
Matthew, softly came near and gently laid his hands upon Livingstone's
cheeks. It was enough; the chill of death was there. The great father of
Africa's dark children was dead, and they were orphans. The most refined
and cultured Englishmen would have been perplexed as to what course to
take. They were surrounded by superstitious and unsympathetic savages, to
whom the unburied remains of the dead man would be an object of dread. His
native land was six thousand miles away, and even the coast was fifteen
hundred. A grave responsibility rested upon these simple-minded sons of the
Dark Continent, to which few of the wisest would have been equal. Those
remains, with his valuable journals, instruments, and personal effects,
must be carried to Zanzibar.
Pages:
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300