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 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,