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South had been locked throughout an entire day in desperate hand-to-hand fighting, only fifty miles to the north of Addis Ababa.
    Each feudal lord was surrounded by levies from the province which he ruled. The simple fighting men were dressed in white, but the chiefs wore their full panoply of war, lion’s-mane head-dresses, brilliant velvet cloaks stiff with silver and golden ornaments, long silk robes of many colours, and great curved swords. All carried shields, some embossed with silver or gilt, and many carried rifles. The Zulu impis parading before Chaka, or the dervishes drawn up to give battle in front of Omdurman, can have appeared no more barbaric than this frenzied tide of men which surged past the royal pavilion throughout the day, to the thunder of the war-drums and the blare of war-horns. This was no ceremonial review. These men had just returned after fighting desperately for their lives, and they were still wild with the excitement of those frantic hours. The blood on the clothes which they had stripped from the dead and draped round their horses was barely dry. They came past in waves, horsemen half concealed in dust and a great press of footmen. Screaming out their deeds of valour and brandishing their weapons, they came right up to the steps of the throne, whence the Court chamberlains beat them back with long wands. Above them, among glinting spear points, countless banners dipped and danced. I can remember one small boy who seemed little older than myself being carried past in triumph. He had killed two men. I can remember Negus Michail, the King of the North, being led past in chains with a stone upon his shoulder in token of submission, an old man in a plain black burnous, with his head wrapped in a white rag. The most moving moment of that wildly exciting day waswhen the drums suddenly stopped and in utter silence a few hundred men in torn, white, everyday clothes came slowly down the long avenue of waiting troops, led by a young boy. It was Ras Lul Seged’s son bringing in the remnants of his father’s army, which had gone into battle five thousand strong.
    It is not surprising that I dreamt of Africa during the years I was at school. I read every book that I could find on African travel and adventure, by Gordon-Cumming, Baldwin, Bruce, Selous, and many others. I pored over Rowland Ward’s
Records of Big Game
and I could easily have passed an examination on African animals, while I was failing repeatedly in Latin. During sermons in chapel I could picture again the scenes of my childhood, conjure up the mountains mat had ringed my horizon, Zuquala, Fantali, Wuchacha, Furi, and Managasha. These are names which have always held a nostalgic fascination for me. Until I went to school I had hardly seen a European child other than my brothers. I found myself in a hostile and incomprehensible world. I was ignorant of the rigid conventions to which schoolboys conform and I suffered in consequence. I spoke of things which I had seen and done and was promptly called a liar. I felt little confidence in my ability to compete with my contemporaries and was often lonely. Fortunately I went on to Eton, for which I acquired a deep and lasting affection.
    I returned to Abyssinia when I was twenty. Haile Selassie had never forgotten that during the critical days of the Great Rebellion my father had sheltered his infant son, the present Crown Prince, in the Legation. He sent me, as my father’s eldest son, a personal invitation to attend his coronation, and I went out to Ethiopia attached to the Duke of Gloucester’s mission. We landed at Jibuti. I do not think I have ever felt so intoxicatedly happy as I did that night in the train on my way to Addis Ababa. When I arrived back at the Legation more than half my life simply vanished from my mind. It needed an effort to remember even the immediate past. It was impossible to believe that eleven years had passed since I had last climbed the hill behind the Legation,