and your path was red with blood.  Year after year you robbed and you destroyed; you raided our cattle, you murdered our men, you took our maidens and our children to be your women and your slaves, until at length, of all this pit filled with the corn of life, there is left but a little handful.  And this you say you will eat up also, lest it should fall into good ground and grow again.  I tell you that I think it will not be so; but whether or no that happens, I have words for the ear of your king—­a message for a message.  Say to him that thus speaks the wise old Molimo of Bambatse.

“I see him hunted like a wounded hyena through the rivers, in the deep bush, and over the mountain.  I see him die in pain and misery; but his grave I see not, for no man shall know it.  I see the white man take his land and all his wealth; yea, to them and to no son of his shall his people give the Bayete, the royal salute.  Of his greatness and his power, this alone shall remain to him—­a name accursed from generation to generation.  And last of all I see peace upon the land and upon my children’s children.”  He paused, then added:  “For you, cruel dog that you are, this message also from the Munwali, by the lips of his Molimo.  I lift no hand against you, but you shall not live to look again upon your king’s face.  Begone now, and do your worst.”

For a moment the three Matabele seemed to be frightened, and Benita heard one of them say to his companions: 

“The Wizard has bewitched us!  He has bewitched the Great Elephant and all his people!  Shall we kill him?”

But quickly shaking off his fears their spokesman laughed, and answered: 

“So that is what you have brought the white people here for, old traitor—­to plot against the throne of Lobengula.”

He wheeled round and stared at Mr. Clifford and Jacob Meyer; then added: 

“Good, Grey-beard and Black-Beard:  I myself will put you both to such a death as you have never heard of, and as for the girl, since she is well favoured, she shall brew the king’s beer, and be numbered amongst the king’s wives—­unless, indeed, he is pleased to give her to me.”

In an instant the thing was done!  At the man’s words about Benita, Meyer, who had been listening to his threats and bombast unconcerned, suddenly seemed to awake.  His dark eyes flashed, his pale face turned cruel.  Snatching the revolver from his belt he seemed to point and fire it with one movement, and down—­dead or dying—­went the Matabele.

Men did not stir, they only stared.  Accustomed as they were to death in that wild land, the suddenness of this deed surprised them.  The contrast between the splendid, brutal savage who had stood before them a moment ago, and the limp, black thing going to sleep upon the ground, was strange enough to move their imaginations.  There he lay, and there, over him, the smoking pistol in his hand, Meyer stood and laughed.

Benita felt that the act was just, and the awful punishment deserved.  Yet that laugh of Jacob’s jarred upon her, for in it she thought she heard the man’s heart speaking; and oh, its voice was merciless!  Surely Justice should not laugh when her sword falls!