“Sweet eyes, be blind to the _Isitunzi_. Little ears, do not hear their groans. Spirits, build a garden fence about this flower and keep her safe from all night-prowling evil things. Imba, little Flower, sleep softly while others lie awake and tremble.” Then he turned and departed swiftly. “Dear me!” said the Bishop. “A strange man, a very strange man. I don’t know quite what to make of him.” “I do,” answered Thomas, “he is a black-hearted villain who is in league with the devil.” “Yes, I dare say—I mean as to his being a villain, that is according to our standards—but does your daughter—a clever and most attractive little girl, by the way—think so? She seemed to look on him with affection—one learns to read children’s eyes, you know. A very strange man, I repeat. If we could see all his heart we should know lots of things and understand more about these people than we do at present. Has it ever struck you, Mr. Bull, how little we white people _do_ understand of the black man’s soul? Perhaps a child can see farther into it than we can. What is the saying—‘a little child shall lead them,’ is it not? Perhaps we do not make enough allowances. ‘Faith, Hope and Charity, these three, but the greatest of these is charity’—or love, which is the same thing. However, of course you are quite right not to have been frightened by his silly talk about the _Isitunzi_, it would never do to show fear or hesitation. Still, I am glad that Mrs. Bull did not hear it; you may have noticed that she had gone on ahead, and if I were you I should not repeat it to her, since ladies are so nervous. Tabitha, my dear, don’t tell your mother anything of all this.” “No, Bishop,” answered Tabitha, “I never tell her all the queer things that Menzi says to me when I meet him, or at least not many of them.” “I wish I had asked him if he had a cure for your local fever,” said the Bishop with a laugh, “for against it, although I have taken so much that my ears buzz, quinine cannot prevail.” “He has given me one in a gourd, Bishop,” replied Tabitha confidentially, “but I have never taken any, because you see I have had no fever, and I haven’t told mother, for if I did she would tell father” (Thomas had stridden ahead, and was out of hearing), “and he might be angry because he doesn’t like Menzi, though I do. Will you have some, Bishop? It is well corked up with clay, and Menzi said it would keep for years.” “Well, my dear,” answered the Bishop, “I don’t quite know. There may be all sorts of queer things in Mr. Menzi’s medicine. Still, he told you to drink it if necessary, and I am absolutely certain that he does not wish to poison _you_. So perhaps I might have a try, for really I feel uncommonly ill.”