The occasion was as follows: The river was rising rapidly and flooding the low-lying town of Monsembe, and as the water rose higher and higher the head-men met together to decide what was to be done to cause the river to subside. Passing that way at the time and hearing the subject of their discussion, I listened to the conference, which lasted about three hours. They suggested one reason after another for the flood, but at last they were unanimously of the opinion that the father of one of the men present was angry with his family for slighting him so long, and to show his disapprobation, he had caused the river (River Congo) thus to rise, and the only method of securing its subsidence was to throw a human sacrifice into the river. When they arrived at this decision I asked for permission to speak, which was readily granted. With my walking-stick I drew an outline of the Congo River, and, putting in some of the larger tributaries, I told them how the rain was falling incessantly in those parts, and that if they wanted to keep the river from rising, the best way was to send their rain-doctor to Stanley Falls to stop the rain, and thus end their anxiety. And as I spoke I pointed to the old man who was sitting among the other head-men. “Oh,” they exclaimed in chorus, “our rain-doctor can stop the rain falling in these parts; but his powers will not act in another district. Our only remedy is to throw an old man into the river.” Old men were cheaper than young ones. “Well,” I replied, “old Mata Bwata (the old chief who was credited with the rise of the river) was a little man, and I am a big man; but one day I shall die and shall be buried here in Monsembe, and if so little a man can cause the river to rise so much because he is angry with you about a ceremony, how high do you think I shall cause the water to rise when I shall be angry with you about murdering men and women in this manner?” “Why,” they answered, “you will be able to make the water come right above our heads, and we shall all be drowned. All right, white man,” they continued, “we know what you mean, and we promise not to throw anyone into the river.” We found afterwards that they compromised the matter, for when they held a mimic “naval” battle (with canoes) in honour of Mata Bwata’s memory, to appease his dissatisfied spirit, they scattered six hundred brass rods in the river—the price of a slave—in lieu of a human sacrifice.