till that moment had he hesitated, by fair means or foul, to remove an enemy or rival from his path.  He had been brought up in this teaching; it was part of the education of wizards to be merciless, for they reigned by terror and evil craft.  Their magic lay chiefly in clairvoyance and powers of observation developed to a pitch that was almost superhuman, and the best of their weapons was poison in infinite variety, whereof the guild alone understood the properties and preparation.  Therefore there was nothing strange, nothing unusual in this deed of devilish and cunning murder that the sight of its doing should stir him thus, and yet it did stir him.  He was minded to stop the plot, to let things take their course.

Some sense of the futility of all such strivings came home to him, and as in a glass, for Hokosa was a man of imagination, he foresaw their end.  A little success, a little failure, it scarcely mattered which, and then—­that end.  Within twenty years, or ten, or mayhap even one, what would this present victory or defeat mean to him?  Nothing so far as he was concerned; that is, nothing so far as his life of to-day was concerned.  Yet, if he had another life, it might mean everything.  There was another life; he knew it, who had dragged back from its borders the spirits of the dead, though what might be the state and occupations of those dead he did not know.  Yet he believed—­why he could not tell—­that they were affected vitally by their acts and behaviour here; and his intelligence warned him that good must always flow from good, and evil from evil.  To kill this man was evil, and of it only evil could come.

What did he care whether Hafela ruled the nation or Nodwengo, and whether it worshipped the God of the Christians or the god of Fire—­who, by the way, had proved himself so singularly inefficient in the hour of trial.  Now that he thought of it, he much preferred Nodwengo to Hafela, for the one was a just man and the other a tyrant; and he himself was more comfortable as a wealthy private person than he had been as a head medicine-man and a chief of wizards.  He would let things stand; he would prevent the Messenger from eating of that fruit.  A word could do it; he had but to suggest that it was unripe or not wholesome at this season of the year, and it would be cast aside.

All these reflections, or their substance, passed through Hokosa’s mind in a few instants of time, and already he was rising to go to the verandah and translate their moral into acts, when another thought occurred to him—­How should he face Noma with this tale?  He could give up his own ambitions, but could he bear her mockery, as day by day she taunted him with his faint-heartedness and reproached him with his failure to regain greatness and to make her great?  He forgot that he might conceal the truth from her; or rather, he did not contemplate such concealment, of which their relations were too peculiar and too intimate to permit.  She hated him, and he worshipped her with a half-inhuman passion—­a passion so unnatural, indeed, that it suggested the horrid and insatiable longings of the damned—­and yet their souls were naked to each other.  It was their fate that they could hide nothing each from each—­they were cursed with the awful necessity of candour.