Sanders smiled. "If N'mika betrays me," he said, "there is no man in the world I will ever trust."
* * * * *
N'mika faced his wife. He wore neither frown nor smile, but upon her face was the terror of death. On a stool in the centre of the hut was the tail of the white antelope, but to this she gave no attention, for her mind was busy with the thoughts of terrible reprisals.
They sat in silence; the fire in the centre of the big hut spluttered and burnt, throwing weird shadows upon the wattle walls.
When N'mika spoke his voice was even and calm.
"Kira, my wife," he said, "you have taken my heart out of me, and left a stone, for you do not love me."
She licked her dry lips and said nothing.
"Now, I may put you away," he went on, "for the shame you have brought, and the sorrow, and the loneliness."
She opened her mouth to speak. Twice she tried, but her tongue refused. Then, again:
"Kill me," she whispered, and kept her staring eyes on his.