No one thinks any the worse of a man who has revenged himself in this way. In fact, if he did not, he would be regarded with contempt by friends and enemies alike. He is actually expected, as a matter of course, to take vengeance for his own or someone else’s injuries, and if he is successful, and has to go into hiding, the neighbours say that he “has had a little misfortune.” In some villages there exists to this day the practice of preserving the blood-stained shirt of a man who has been assassinated. If the man’s children are too young to seek out those who have killed him, the relic is shown them from time to time until they are old enough to wash out the stain with the blood of someone else. “One does not cry for a father who has been assassinated,” said a mother to her children; “one avenges him.” And a man has been known to cry out over the body of his father, who had died a natural death, “Alas! why did you not die by violence, that I might have avenged you?” As girls are not supposed to be able to avenge the family insults in the same way as men, they are not treated as being of much account. A peasant who had six daughters and three sons has been heard to remark, “I have only three children.” Still, stories are told of women who have practised the vendetta like men. Some years ago a poor widow lost her only son by the hand of an assassin. The son was a good-looking, sturdy fellow of about twenty-two, and his mother’s only support. She had no relative to take up her cause. She went into the Bush herself, and searched every hole and corner, gun in hand, tracking the murderers of her son. They escaped from time to time, but she never gave up, and for several months the outlaws knew neither peace nor safety. One morning, however, she also was found dead at the corner of a wood. She had fallen a victim to the man who had robbed her of her much-loved son. Sometimes it is not possible to find an opportunity to slay immediately the man you seek. But vengeance, though long delayed, is fairly sure. There is a story told of a man who was wanted by a neighbour whom he had offended. For twenty years this man kept inside his house, never daring to show his face upon the door-step. At last he heard that his tireless enemy was dead, and he ventured into the street to see the funeral procession go by. No sooner did he put his foot outside the door than bang went a rifle, and he fell dead on his own threshold. The funeral procession broke up with a laugh, for the whole burial business was a sham, a mere trick to get the man into the open.