On the following morning we started before sunrise, and
rode over the usual pathless burnt prairies, until we reached the
base of Nahoot Guddabi, the mountain for which we had been
steering. Eight miles farther, we arrived at Metemma, a Tokroori
village, in the heart of the mountains, twenty-seven miles from
our last resting-place, and fifty-one miles from our camp on the
Salaam river. From this point to the river Salaam, the entire
country slopes perceptibly to the west--the drainage being
carried to the Atbara by numerous streams. The country that we
had now entered, was inhabited exclusively by Tokrooris, although
belonging to Abyssinia. They came out to meet us upon our arrival
at the village, and immediately fraternised with those of our
people that belonged to their tribe, from whom they quickly
learnt all about us. They brought us a he-goat, together with
milk and honey. The latter we had revelled in for some months
past, as the countries through which we travelled abounded with
a supply in the rocks and hollow trees; but the milk was a
luxury, as our goats were nearly dry. The he-goat was a regular
old patriarch of the flock, and, for those who are fond of
savoury food, it might have been a temptation, but as it exhaled
a perfume that rendered its presence unbearable, we were obliged
to hand it over as a present to our Tokrooris--even they turned
up their noses at the offer.
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