Thursday, 9th October, The Taylor. Last night, about sundown, a native woman and youngster came to the waterhole, rushed down, had a drink, and were running off again, when I cooed and made signs of friendship; in a few seconds the woman gained confidence, and, not seeing any of us approach, went down to the hole again, and fetched up a large troughful of water. Mr. Kekwick tried to induce her to stop, in order to gain some information from her, but it was of no use; the faster he walked the faster she did the same, chatting all the time, pointing to the south; so he left her to walk at her leisure. They do not seem to be at all frightened of us; but we cannot get any of them to come near, although we have tried every time they have come. The day again oppressively hot. I still feel very ill. Wind from south-east. Nothing particular has occurred during the day. This is dreadful work to be detained here so long. I am afraid soon I shall not be able to sit in the saddle, and then what must I do? I feel myself getting weaker and weaker every day. I hope the Almighty will have compassion on me, and soon send me some relief. He is the only one that can do it--my only friend.