Descending the cone Benita went to find her father, to whom as yet she had said nothing of her plans.  The opportunity was good, for she knew that he would be alone.  As it chanced, on that afternoon Meyer had gone down the hill in order to try to persuade the Makalanga to give them ten or twenty men to help them in their excavations.  In this, it will be remembered, he had already failed so far as the Molimo was concerned, but he was not a man easily turned from his purpose, and he thought that if he could see Tamas and some of the other captains he might be able by bribery, threats, or otherwise, to induce them to forget their superstitious fears, and help in the search.  As a matter of fact, he was utterly unsuccessful, since one and all they declared that for them to enter that sacred place would mean their deaths, and that the vengeance of Heaven would fall upon their tribe and destroy it root and branch.

Mr. Clifford, on whom all this heavy labour had begun to tell, was taking advantage of the absence of his taskmaster, Jacob, to sleep awhile in the hut which they had now built for themselves beneath the shadow of the baobab-tree.  As she reached it he came out yawning, and asked her where she had been.  Benita told him.

“A giddy place,” he said.  “I have never ventured to try it myself.  What did you go up there for, dear?”

“To look at the river while Mr. Meyer was away, father; for if he had seen me do so he would have guessed my reason; indeed, I dare say that he will guess it now.”

“What reason, Benita?”

“To see whether it would not be possible to escape down it in a boat.  But there is no chance.  It is all rapids below, with hills and rocks and trees on either bank.”

“What need have you to escape at present?” he asked eyeing her curiously.

“Every need,” she answered with passion.  “I hate this place; it is a prison, and I loathe the very name of treasure.  Also,” and she paused.

“Also what, dear?”

“Also,” and her voice sank to a whisper, as though she feared that he should overhear her even at the bottom of the hill; “also, I am afraid of Mr. Meyer.”

This confession did not seem to surprise her father, who merely nodded his head and said: 

“Go on.”

“Father, I think that he is going mad, and it is not pleasant for us to be cooped up here alone with a madman, especially when he has begun to speak to me as he does now.”

“You don’t mean that he has been impertinent to you,” said the old man, flushing up, “for if so——­”

“No, not impertinent—­as yet,” and she told him what had passed between Meyer and herself, adding, “You see, father, I detest this man; indeed, I want to have nothing to do with any man; for me all that is over and done with,” and she gave a dry little sob which appeared to come from her very heart.  “And yet, he seems to be getting some kind of power over me.  He follows me about with his eyes, prying into my mind, and I feel that he is beginning to be able to read it.  I can bear no more.  Father, father, for God’s sake, take me away from this hateful hill and its gold and its dead, and let us get out into the veld again together.”