s he would lie awake at night
devising some scheme for ridding himself of his oppressor. If only that
plan had been carried out on the mountain that day! If only old Patolo
had arrived upon the scene half a minute later! It was no murder, he
decided. A blackmailer was a pest to the human race. Extermination was
only the just fate of such. This one was robbing him of his peace,
therefore his destruction was as nothing to the price he had paid to
purchase that peace. One day Manamandhla said:

"_Nkose_, my brother's son is paying _lobola_ for a girl, over there, in
Zululand. He still needs two cows to complete the price, but the son of
a richer man has offered one cow and a goat beyond the price he can pay.
Shall he not therefore have the two cows--as _Nkose_ has known me so
long and is as our father?"

The outrageous impudence of this demand hardly surprised Thornhill, who,
of course, was fully aware that the needs of the `brother's son' did not
exist. He gazed fixedly at the Zulu for some moments and the faces of
both men were like stone.

"I think I will give you the two cows, Manamandhla, but you can take
them away yourself and--not come back. Do you hear--not come back?"

The speaker's expression was savage and threatening. He felt cornered.

"_Au_! Not come back?" repeated the Zulu, softly.

"Not come back. Go all over the world, but this place is the most
deadly dangerous spot in it--for you. I solemnly advise you not to
return to it. This evening I will give you the two cows--for your
brother's son's _lobola_"--he interpolated with a sneer, "and you can go
back to Zululand and stay there."

"_Nkose_!"

This conversation took place at the back of the house and the concluding
remarks were overheard by Edala. She had never heard her father's voice
raised in that tone for many years, and now as she connected the
circumstance a dreadful suspicion came into her mind. This Zulu knew
too much, and now he was being bribed and threatened in about equal
proportions in order in induce him to make himself scarce. Her father's
reply that the man was useful, had struck her as hollow and half-hearted
at the time it was made.

"I have a bit of good news for you, child," said Thornhill that evening.
"Your aversion, Manamandhla, is going--if he hasn't already gone."

"A good thing too," answered the girl, to whom it was no news. "I hope
you won't let him come back."

"I think not," said Thornhill, wit