The hunt was not a matter to be decided out of hand, by a swift paddle straight up to the sand-bank in the river, and a chance shot.

The canoe crept up slowly and passed out of sight.  The old hunters in the watching crowd took counsel together, and then the chief of them announced what would happen.  The “slayer of crocodiles” would, he declared, get above the island and then slowly descend with the current upon the river-horse.

“May he shoot straight and his powder be strong,” shouted a river-man; “for it is the father of bulls who sleeps there—­he who has eaten many canoes.”

“It is the same,” said the old hunter; and, taking a pinch of snuff, he began to tell the deeds of the old bull hippo.

So the drowsy afternoon passed lazily away to the watchers, and wearily to the white boys.  Their thoughts were in the canoe, and, moreover, they were irritated by the slowness of the men who carried the parcels.  No man would carry more than one package at a time, and after each journey he sat down to rest and discuss the chances for and against the feast.

When the shadows were creeping across the deserted square—­deserted save for the man bound to the post, Venning for the hundredth time looked across with an aching desire to rush over and cut the bonds.  As his eyes ranged sadly over the bronzed figure, he detected a movement in the shadow of a hut opposite.  Looking more attentively, he saw the round ears of a jackal, and then made out the sharp face resting between the outstretched paws, and the yellow eyes fixed intently on the chief.

Muata lifted his head slowly, as if it were top heavy for the muscles of his neck, and his gaze went sideways to see if any watched.

Venning nodded eagerly from the shelter of the room; made a movement with his hands as if he were cutting; pointed up the river and spread his arms like a swimmer.

Muata let fall his head again, with his chin on his naked breast; and the carriers ranged up for the last load.  A shout from the bank made them hurry.  Several people who had gone to see about their fires rushed, yelling, across the square to the bank.

“It was as I said,” shouted the old black hunter.  “See where he creeps down-stream on the bull.”  “Wow! he has hidden the canoe in leaves.  It is as a tree floating.”

“Ow ay, we smell meat!” sang a big man, stamping his feet.

“We smell meat—­red meat, fat meat; the red meat of the fat cow for the women; the tough meat of the old bull for the men;” and the women clapped their hands.

The Belgian officers were awakened, and stepped out of their darkened rooms.  They found the village empty, save for Venning stooping over his last parcel, and Muata at his post with what looked like a yellow native our lying at his feet.

“The bull opens his mouth!” chanted the old hunter.  “He wakes from his sleep!  There is the smell of man on the wind!  He looks around!  He sees a tree borne on the current!  He will surely eat lead!”