When the skin was removed, except that of the hands, which we did not attempt to touch, we pegged it out, raw side uppermost, to dry in the centre of the open place where the sun struck.  Then, having buried poor Jerry in the hollow trunk of the great fallen tree, we washed ourselves with the wet mosses and ate some of the food that remained to us.

After this we started forward again in much better spirits.  Jerry, it was true, was dead, but so was the god, leaving us happily still alive and practically untouched.  Never more would the Kalubis of Pongo-land shiver out their lives at the feet of this dreadful divinity who soon or late must become their executioner, for I believe, with the exception of two who committed suicide through fear, that no Kalubi was ever known to have died except by the hand—­or teeth—­of the god.

What would I not give to know that brute’s history?  Could it possibly, as the Motombo said, have accompanied the Pongo people from their home in Western or Central Africa, or perhaps have been brought here by them in a state of captivity?  I am unable to answer the question, but it should be noted that none of the Mazitu or other natives had ever heard of the existence of more true gorillas in this part of Africa.  The creature, if it had its origin in the locality, must either have been solitary in its habits or driven away from its fellows, as sometimes happens to old elephants, which then, like this gorilla, become fearfully ferocious.

That is all I can say about the brute, though of course the Pongo had their own story.  According to them it was an evil spirit in the shape of an ape, which evil spirit had once inhabited the body of an early Kalubi, and had been annexed by the ape when it killed the said Kalubi.  Also they declared that the reason the creature put all the Kalubis to death, as well as a number of other people who were offered up to it, was that it needed “to refresh itself with the spirits of men,” by which means it was enabled to avoid the effects of age.  It will be remembered that the Motombo referred to this belief, of which afterwards I heard in more detail from Babemba.  But if this god had anything supernatural about it, at least its magic was no shield against a bullet from a Purdey rifle.

Only a little way from the fallen tree we came suddenly upon a large clearing, which we guessed at once must be that “Garden of the god” where twice a year the unfortunate Kalubis were doomed to scatter the “sacred seed.”  It was a large garden, several acres of it, lying on a shelf, as it were, of the mountain and watered by a stream.  Maize grew in it, also other sorts of corn, while all round was a thick belt of plantain trees.  Of course these crops had formed the food of the god who, whenever it was hungry, came to this place and helped itself, as we could see by many signs.  The garden was well kept and comparatively free from weeds.  At first we wondered how this could be, till I remembered that the Kalubi, or someone, had told me that it was tended by the servants of the Mother of the Flower, who were generally albinos or mutes.