it.  He watched her advancing along the path, her hands resting on her hips, her splendid naked figure outlined against the westering sun, and wondered what excuse he could make to talk with her.  As it chanced fortune favoured him, for when she was near him a snake glided across the path in front of the girl’s feet, causing her to spring backwards in alarm and overset the gourd of water.  He came forward, and picked it up.

“Wait here,” he said laughing; “I will bring it to you full.”

“Nay, Inkoos,” she remonstrated, “that is a woman’s work.”

“Among my people,” he said, “the men love to work for the women,” and he started for the spring, leaving her wondering.

Before he reached her again, he regretted his gallantry, for it was necessary to carry the handleless gourd upon his shoulder, and the contents of it spilling over the edge soaked him.  Of this, however, he said nothing to Nanea.

“There is your water, Nanea, shall I carry it for you to the kraal?”

“Nay, Inkoos, I thank you, but give it to me, you are weary with its weight.”

“Stay awhile, and I will accompany you.  Ah!  Nanea, I am still weak, and had it not been for you I think that I should be dead.”

“It was Nahoon who saved you—­not I, Inkoos.”

“Nahoon saved my body, but you, Nanea, you alone can save my heart.”

“You talk darkly, Inkoos.”

“Then I must make my meaning clear, Nanea.  I love you.”

She opened her brown eyes wide.

“You, a white lord, love me, a Zulu girl?  How can that be?”

“I do not know, Nanea, but it is so, and were you not blind you would have seen it.  I love you, and I wish to take you to wife.”

“Nay, Inkoos, it is impossible.  I am already betrothed.”

“Ay,” he answered, “betrothed to the king.”

“No, betrothed to Nahoon.”

“But it is the king who will take you within a week; is it not so?  And would you not rather that I should take you than the king?”

“It seems to be so, Inkoos, and I would rather go with you than with the king, but most of all I desire to marry Nahoon.  It may be that I shall not be able to marry him, but if that is so, at least I will never become one of the king’s women.”

“How will you prevent it, Nanea?”

“There are waters in which a maid may drown, and trees upon which she can hang,” she answered with a quick setting of the mouth.

“That were a pity, Nanea, you are too fair to die.”

“Fair or foul, yet I die, Inkoos.”

“No, no, come with me—­I will find a way—­and be my wife,” and he put her arm about her waist, and strove to draw her to him.

Without any violence of movement, and with the most perfect dignity, the girl disengaged herself from his embrace.

“You have honoured me, and I thank you, Inkoos,” she said quietly, “but you do not understand.  I am the wife of Nahoon—­I belong to Nahoon; therefore, I cannot look on any other man while Nahoon lives.  It is not our custom, Inkoos, for we are not as the white women, but ignorant and simple, and when we vow ourselves to a man, we abide by that vow till death.”