“The plan is very clever,” said Noma again.

“It is very clever,” he repeated complacently; “never have I made a better one.  Now throw those fruits to the she goats that are in the kraal, and burn the basket, while I go and talk to some in the Great Place, telling them that I have returned from counting my cattle on the mountain, whither I went after I had bowed the knee in the house of the king.”

*****

Two hours later, Hokosa, having made a wide detour and talked to sundry of his acquaintances about the condition of his cattle, might have been seen walking slowly along the north side of the Great Place towards his own kraal.  His path lay past the chapel and the little house that Owen had built to dwell in.  This house was furnished with a broad verandah, and upon it sat the Messenger himself, eating his evening meal.  Hokosa saw him, and a great desire entered his heart to learn whether or no he had partaken of the poisoned fruit.  Also it occurred to him that it would be wise if, before the end came, he could contrive to divert all possible suspicion from himself, by giving the impression that he was now upon friendly terms with the great white teacher and not disinclined even to become a convert to his doctrine.

For a moment he hesitated, seeking an excuse.  One soon suggested itself to his ready mind.  That very morning the king had told him not obscurely that Owen had pleaded for his safety and saved him from being put upon his trial on charges of witchcraft and murder.  He would go to him, now at once, playing the part of a grateful penitent, and the White Man’s magic must be keen indeed if it availed to pierce the armour of his practised craft.

So Hokosa went up and squatted himself down native fashion among a little group of converts who were waiting to see their teacher upon one business or another.  He was not more than ten paces from the verandah, and sitting thus he saw a sight that interested him strangely.  Having eaten a little of a dish of roasted meat, Owen put out his hand and took a fruit from a basket that the wizard knew well.  At this moment he looked up and recognised Hokosa.

“Do you desire speech with me, Hokosa?” he asked in his gentle voice.  “If so, be pleased to come hither.”

“Nay, Messenger,” answered Hokosa, “I desire speech with you indeed, but it is ill to stand between a hungry man and his food.”

“I care little for my food,” answered Owen; “at the least it can wait,” and he put down the fruit.

Then suddenly a feeling to which the wizard had been for many years a stranger took possession of him—­a feeling of compunction.  That man was about to partake of what would cause his death—­of what he, Hokosa, had prepared in order that it should cause his death.  He was good, he was kindly, none could allege a wrong deed against him; and, foolishness though it might be, so was the doctrine that he taught.  Why should he kill him?  It was true that never