pted murder, only, however, to dismiss the idea. Who would
believe her? And if they did believe what good would it do? She would
only be imprisoned and kept out of harm's way, or possibly murdered out
of hand. Then she thought of attempting to communicate with her uncle
and Bessie, to tell them that John was, so far as she knew, alive,
only to recognise the impossibility of doing so now that the sentry had
returned. Besides, what object could be served? The knowledge that John
was alive might, it is true, encourage Bessie to resist Muller, but then
the death of the old man must certainly ensue. Dismissing this
project from her mind Jess began to consider whether they could obtain
assistance. Alas! it was impossible. The only people from whom she could
hope for aid would be the natives, and now that the Boers had triumphed
over the English--for this much she had gathered from her captors and
from Jantje--it was very doubtful if the Kafirs would dare to assist
her. Besides, at the best it would take twenty-four hours to collect a
force, and by then help would come too late. The situation was hopeless.
Nowhere could she see a ray of light.

"What," Jess said aloud to herself--"what is there in the world that
will stop a man like Frank Muller?"

And then of an instant the answer rose up in her brain as though by
inspiration--

"_Death!_"

Death, and death alone, would stay him. For a minute she held the idea
in her mind till she grew familiar with it, then it was driven out by
another thought that followed swiftly on its track. Frank Muller must
die, and die before the morning light. By no other possible means could
the Gordian knot be cut, and both Bessie and her old uncle be saved. If
he were dead he could not marry Bessie, and if he died with the warrant
unsigned their uncle could not be executed. That was the terrible answer
to her riddle.

Yet it was most just that he should die, for had he not murdered and
attempted murder? Surely if ever a man deserved a swift and awful doom
that man was Frank Muller.

And so this forsaken, helpless girl, crouching upon the ground a torn
and bespattered fugitive in the miserable hiding-hole of a Hottentot,
arraigned the powerful leader of men before the tribunal of her
conscience, and without pity, if without wrath, passed upon him a
sentence of extinction.

But who was to be the executioner? A dreadful thought flashed into her
mind and made her heart stand still, but she di