"Ah, you catch that," cried Kobo, as he drew his bowstring in answer, and saw his arrow quivering in the neck of the rainmaker. "You no cure that, Maomo--you clever doctor, but no cure that! Him dead," he continued, complacently addressing his companions, "him dead in half an hour. Poison quite fresh and good!" "Unhappy wretch!" exclaimed the missionary, as he watched the Bechuanas gather in dismay round their fallen prophet. "I have no doubt you speak the truth, Kobo; and the impostor drew his fate upon himself. But it is a fearful ending! When will the light of God's truth shine in this benighted land?" "Yes, Kobo speak truth," said the guide, answering the only part of De Walden's speech which he understood. "Kobo speak truth--Maomo dead for certain--he suffer bad pain too. Ah, they carry him away. No trouble us more." The raft was by this time in the central channel of the river, sweeping rapidly down towards the island. In about half an hour this was reached; and Kobo steering it towards a spot where several willows stretched out into the stream, contrived to lodge it securely between two of them. The party then landed, and carried all their goods on shore; after which Kobo directed them to haul the raft also on to the bank, and hide it carefully among the long grass and rushes. "People no come that way," he said, pointing down the river; "large deep falls, and no come from that bank--rocks too steep and high. But may come from other bank, or same way as we, from further down. Sometimes Basutos hunt `'potmus,' as white man call him." "Hippopotamuses!" exclaimed Frank. "Are there any of them hereabouts?" "Plenty 'potmus. All along that bank--wonder we not see them. All among canes there--feed at night mostly--come out by and by."