“It is a trick!” he roared.  “These white devils have killed the god and stolen the Holy Flower and its priestess.  The yellow man is wrapped in the skin of the god.  To the boats!  To the boats!”

“Paddle,” I shouted to Brother John and Stephen, “paddle for your lives!  Mavovo, help me get up the sail.”

As it chanced on that stormy morning the wind was blowing strongly towards the mainland.

We laboured at the mast, shipped it and hauled up the mat sail, but slowly for we were awkward at the business.  By the time that it began to draw the paddles had propelled us about four hundred yards from the wharf, whence many canoes, with their sails already set, were starting in pursuit.  Standing in the prow of the first of these, and roaring curses and vengeance at us, was Komba, the new Kalubi, who shook a great spear above his head.

An idea occurred to me, who knew that unless something were done we must be overtaken and killed by these skilled boatmen.  Leaving Mavovo to attend to the sail, I scrambled aft, and thrusting aside the fainting Hans, knelt down in the stern of the canoe.  There was still one charge, or rather one cap, left, and I meant to use it.  I put up the largest flapsight, lifted the little rifle and covered Komba, aiming at the point of his chin. Intombi was not sighted for or meant to use at this great distance, and only by this means of allowing for the drop of the bullet, could I hope to hit the man in the body.

The sail was drawing well now and steadied the boat, also, being still under the shelter of the land, the water was smooth as that of a pond, so really I had a very good firing platform.  Moreover, weary though I was, my vital forces rose to the emergency and I felt myself grow rigid as a statue.  Lastly, the light was good, for the sun rose behind me, its level rays shining full on to my mark.  I held my breath and touched the trigger.  The charge exploded sweetly and almost at the instant; as the smoke drifted to one side, I saw Komba throw up his arms and fall backwards into the canoe.  Then, quite a long while afterwards, or so it seemed, the breeze brought the faint sound of the thud of that fateful bullet to our ears.

Though perhaps I ought not to say so, it was really a wonderful shot in all the circumstances, for, as I learned afterwards, the ball struck just where I hoped that it might, in the centre of the breast, piercing the heart.  Indeed, taking everything into consideration, I think that those four shots which I fired in Pongo-land are the real record of my career as a marksman.  The first at night broke the arm of the gorilla god and would have killed him had not the charge hung fire and given him time to protect his head.  The second did kill him in the midst of a great scrimmage when everything was moving.  The third, fired by the glare of lightning after a long swim, slew the Motombo, and the fourth, loosed at this great distance from a moving boat, was the bane of that cold-blooded and treacherous man, Komba, who thought that he had trapped us to Pongo-land to be murdered and eaten as a sacrifice.  Lastly there was always the consciousness that no mistake must be made, since with but four percussion caps it could not be retrieved.