The two young men had loved the pig.

But what of that?
It did not concern Kwaque, who was as unaware of their love for the pig as he was unaware of the pig itself.
The first he knew, he averred, was the gossip of the village that the pig was dead, and that somebody would have to die for it.

It was all right, he said, in reply to a query from the steward.

It was the custom.
Whenever a loved pig died its owners were in custom bound to go out and kill somebody, anybody.

Of course, it was better if they killed the one whose magic had made the pig sick.