, 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.

I am sure that I could not have done so well with any other rifle,
however modern and accurate it might be. But to this little Purdey
weapon I had been accustomed from my youth, and that, as any marksman
will know, means a great deal. I seemed to know it and it seemed to know
me. It hangs on my wall to this day, although of course I never use it
now in our breech-loading era. Unfortunately, however, a local gunsmith
to whom I sent it to have the lock cleaned, re-browned it and scraped
and varnished the stock, etc., without authority, making it look almost
new again. I preferred it in its worn and scratched condition.

To return: the sound of the shot, like that of John Peel's horn, aroused
Hans from his sleep. He thrust his head between my legs and saw Komba
fall.

"Oh! beautiful, Baas, beautiful!" he said faintly. "I am sure that the
ghost of your reverend father cannot kill his enemies more nicely down
there among the Fires. Beautiful!" and the silly old fellow fell to
kissing my boots, or what remained of them, after which I gave him the
last of the brandy.

This quite brought him to himself again, especially when he was free
from that filthy skin and had washed his head and hands.

The effect of the death of Komba upon the Pongos was very strange. All
the other canoes clustered round that in which he lay. Then, after a
hurried consultation, they hauled down their sails and paddled back to
the wharf. Why they did this I cannot tell. Perhaps they thought that
he was bewitched, or o