“This woman,” he said, “was my wife.  I divorced her for barrenness, as I have a right to do according to our ancient law, and I took another woman to wife, her half-sister.  This woman was jealous; she plagued me continually, and insulted her sister, so that I was forced to drive her away.  After that she came to my house, and though they said nothing of it at the time, she was seen by two servants of mine to sprinkle something in the bowl wherein our food was cooking.  Subsequently my wife, this woman’s half-sister, was taken ill with dysentery.  I also was taken ill with dysentery, but I still live to tell this story before you, O King, and your judges, though I know not for how long I live.  My wife died yesterday, and I buried her this morning.  I accuse the woman of having murdered her, either by witchcraft or by means of a medicine which she sprinkled on the food, or by both.  I have spoken.”

“Have you anything to say?” asked the king of the prisoner.  “Are you guilty of the crime whereof this man who was your husband charges you, or does he lie?”

Then the woman answered in a low and broken voice:—­

“I am guilty, King.  Listen to my story:”  and she told it all as she told it to Hokosa.  “I am guilty,” she added, “and may the Great Man in the sky, of Whom the Messenger has taught us, forgive me.  My sister’s blood is upon my hands, and for aught I know the blood of my husband yonder will also be on my hands.  I seek no mercy; indeed, it is better that I should die; but I would say this in self-defence, that I did not think to kill my sister.  I believed that I was giving to her a potion which would cause her husband to hate her and no more.”

Here she looked round and her eyes met those of Hokosa.

“Who told you that this was so?” asked one of the judges.

“A witch-doctor,” she answered, “from whom I bought the medicine in the old days, long ago, when Umsuka was king.”

Hokosa gasped.  Why should this woman have spared him?

No further question was asked of her, and the judges consulted together.  At length the king spoke.

“Woman,” he said, “you are condemned to die.  You will be taken to the Doom Tree, and there be hanged.  Out of those who are assembled to try you, two, the Messenger and myself, have given their vote in favour of mercy, but the majority think otherwise.  They say that a law has been passed against murder by means of witchcraft and secret medicine, and that should we let you go free, the people will make a mock of that law.  So be it.  Go in peace.  To-morrow you must die, and may forgiveness await you elsewhere.”

“I ask nothing else,” said the woman.  “It is best that I should die.”

Then they led her away.  As she passed Hokosa she turned and looked him full in the eyes, till he dropped his head abashed.  Next morning she was executed, and he learned that her last words were:  “Let it come to the ears of him who sold me the poison, telling me that it was but a harmless drug, that as I hope to be forgiven, so I forgive him, believing that my silence may win for him time for repentance, before he follows on the road I tread.”