“I told you that it was so from the beginning, Swallow, for in all the country there is no other such hill as this, and because of the aspect of those ridges when seen from a distance it is named the Mountain of the Great Hand.” Before the words had left her lips another voice spoke, at the sound of which Suzanne nearly fell to the earth. “Good day to you, Suzanne,” it said in Dutch and was silent. “Sihamba, did you hear, Sihamba?” she gasped. “Do I dream, or did Piet Van Vooren speak to me?” “You did not dream,” answered Sihamba, “for that voice was the voice of Swart Piet and no other, and he is hidden somewhere among the rocks of yonder cliff wall. Quick, Swallow, kneel behind this stone lest he should shoot.” She obeyed, and at that moment the voice spoke again out of the shadows of the cliff that bordered the pass twenty or thirty paces from them. “What, Suzanne,” it said, “is that little witch-doctoress telling you that I shall fire on you? Had I wished I could have shot you three times over while you were standing upon that rock. But why should I desire to kill one who will be my lover? Sihamba I wished to shoot indeed, but her familiar set her so that the bullet must pass through you to reach her heart. Suzanne, you are going to hide yourself among the people of the Umpondwana. Oh! yes, I know your plan. Well, when once you are behind the walls of that mountain it may be difficult to speak to you for a while, so listen to me. You thought that you had left me far away, did you not? but I have followed you step by step and twice I have been very near to you, although I could never find a chance to carry you off safely. Well, I wish to tell you that sooner or later I shall find that chance; sooner or later you will come out of the mountain or I shall get into it, and then it will be my turn; so, love, till that hour fare you well. Stay, I forgot, I have news for you; your husband, the English castaway, is dead.” At this tidings a low moan of pain broke from Suzanne’s lips. “Be silent and take no heed,” whispered Sihamba, who was kneeling at her side behind the shelter of the stone, “he does but lie to torment you.” “The bullet and the water together were too much for him,” went on Swart Piet, “and he died on the second night after he reached the stead. Your father came to seek me in the place you know, and was carried home badly wounded for his pains, but whether he lived or died I cannot tell you, but I heard that your mother, the good Vrouw Botmar, is very sick, for things have so fallen out lately that her mind is troubled, and she flies to drink to comfort it.” Now when she heard this, Sihamba could keep silence no longer, but cried in a mocking voice: