"He will have enough to do to look after himself. Harold, that man will die!" "How do you know? Do you mean a violent death, and that soon?" "Yes, that is just what I do mean. My mother was a Highland woman, and had what they call second-sight. I have not got it myself, I suppose, because I am not a pure Celt. But I have enough of the seer in me to have a presentiment about that man! I feel certain that he will die by violence, and that shortly. I can't explain myself more clearly." "One never can explain a feeling of that sort. You told this to Van Zwieten himself?" "Yes, and I frightened him. Perhaps that is why he has not been near us." "I should not have thought he was superstitious, Brenda; nor you either, for that matter." "I am not, as a rule," was her reply, "but I feel that what I say is true. Van Zwieten will die!" Harold, sturdy, stolid Englishman as he was, tried to argue her out of this idea, but he gave it up as hopeless. She had made up her mind that their enemy was a dead man, or would be dead within a few days. Strange to say, it was on that very day that he paid them his first visit. He looked as handsome and as burly as ever. Going by appearances, he had a good many years of villainy before him yet. He came up to the veranda and saluted Mrs. Burton with a low bow of which she took no notice. "You are surprised to see me?" he said, with his usual cool insolence. "I cannot say that I am surprised at anything you do," was Harold's disdainful reply. "But if you have come to make the same proposition you made before, I warn you that I shall not listen to it so patiently." The Dutchman cast a quick glance at the slender figure of the other man. "I am not afraid of you," he sneered; "you have no weapons--neither sword nor revolver." "I can use my fists even on such a big bully as you!" "As you please. But I don't see much chance of delivering my message until you moderate your tone." "What is your message?" asked Brenda, speaking for the first time. "I come to offer you freedom." "On what conditions?" "There are none. I love you still. If I had my way I would kill your husband and marry you. But unfortunately," said Van Zwieten, with a sneer, "I am amongst a very moral people. Piet Bok has told the Boer generals about what they are pleased to call my wickedness, and I have been informed that if I persist in my plans I may say good-bye to all advancement amongst the godly Boers. Now I am a poor man, and cannot afford to lose all I have gained. Ambition for me must be stronger than love. So, Mrs. Burton, I give you up!" "Thank God!" cried she, clasping her hands; adding, as an afterthought, "If I could only believe you!"