“To look at the river while Mr. Meyer was away, father; for if he had seen me do so he would have guessed my reason; indeed, I dare say that he will guess it now.” “What reason, Benita?” “To see whether it would not be possible to escape down it in a boat. But there is no chance. It is all rapids below, with hills and rocks and trees on either bank.” “What need have you to escape at present?” he asked, eyeing her curiously. “Every need,” she answered with passion. “I hate this place; it is a prison, and I loathe the very name of treasure. Also,” and she paused. “Also what, dear?” “Also,” and her voice sank to a whisper, as though she feared that he should overhear her even at the bottom of the hill; “also, I am afraid of Mr. Meyer.” This confession did not seem to surprise her father, who merely nodded his head and said: “Go on.” “Father, I think that he is going mad, and it is not pleasant for us to be cooped up here alone with a madman, especially when he has begun to speak to me as he does now.” “You don’t mean that he has been impertinent to you,” said the old man, flushing up, “for if so----” “No, not impertinent--as yet,” and she told him what had passed between Meyer and herself, adding, “You see, father, I detest this man; indeed, I want to have nothing to do with any man; for me all that is over and done with,” and she gave a dry little sob which appeared to come from her very heart. “And yet, he seems to be getting some kind of power over me. He follows me about with his eyes, prying into my mind, and I feel that he is beginning to be able to read it. I can bear no more. Father, father, for God’s sake, take me away from this hateful hill and its gold and its dead, and let us get out into the veld again together.” “I should be glad enough, dearest,” he answered. “I have had plenty of this wild-goose chase, which I was so mad as to be led into by the love of wealth. Indeed, I am beginning to believe that if it goes on much longer I shall leave my bones here.” “And if such a dreadful thing as that were to happen, what would become of me, alone with Jacob Meyer?” she asked quietly. “I might even be driven to the same fate as that poor girl two hundred years ago,” and she pointed to the cone of rock behind her. “For Heaven’s sake, don’t talk like that!” he broke in. “Why not? One must face things, and it would be better than Jacob Meyer; for who would protect me here?” Mr. Clifford walked up and down for a few minutes, while his daughter watched him anxiously. “I can see no plan,” he said, stopping opposite her. “We cannot take the waggon even if there are enough oxen left to draw it, for it is his as much as mine, and I am sure that he will never leave this treasure unless he is driven away.” “And I am sure I hope that he will not. But, father, the horses are our own; it was his that died, you remember. We can ride away on them.” He stared at her and answered: