The door was open, and, followed by the Zulus, he entered to search the place, for he feared that its inhabitants might have seen them, and have gone with the others. Looking into the first room that they reached, of which, as it chanced, the door was also open, Ishmael saw that this was not so, for there upon the bed lay Mrs. Dove, apparently very ill, while by the side of the bed knelt her husband, praying. For a few moments Ishmael and the savages behind him stood still, staring at the pair, till suddenly Mrs. Dove turned her head and saw them. Lifting herself in the bed she pointed with her finger, and Ishmael noticed that her lips were quite blue, and that she did not seem to be able to speak. Then Mr. Dove, observing her outstretched hand, looked round. He had not seen Ishmael since that day when he struck him after their stormy interview at Mafooti, but recognising the man at once, he asked sternly: “What are you doing, sir, with these savages in my house? Cannot you see that my wife is sick, and must not be disturbed?” “I am sorry,” Ishmael answered shamefacedly, for in his heart he was afraid of Mr. Dove, “but I am sent to you with a message from Dingaan the King, and,” he added as an afterthought, “from your daughter.” “From my daughter!” exclaimed Mr. Dove eagerly. “What of her? Is she well? We cannot get any certain news of her, only rumours.” “I saw her but once.” replied Ishmael, “and she was well enough, then. You know the Zulus have made her their Inkosazana, and keep her guarded.” “Does she live quite alone then with these savages?” “She did, but I am sorry I must tell you that she seems to have a companion now, some scoundrel of a white man with whom she has taken up,” he sneered. “My daughter take up with a scoundrel of a white man! It is false. What is this man’s name?” “I don’t know, but the natives call him Dario, and say that he is young, and has fair hair, and that she is in love with him. That’s all I can tell you about the man.” Mr. Dove shook his head, but his wife sat up suddenly in bed, and plucked him by the sleeve, for she had been listening intently to everything that passed. “Dario! Young, fair hair, in love with him—” she repeated in a thick whisper, then added, “John, it is Richard Darrien grown up—the boy who saved her in the Umtooma River, years ago, and whom she has never forgotten. Oh! thank God! Thank God! With him she will be safe. I always knew that he would find her, for they belong to each other,” and she sank back exhausted. “That’s what the Zulus say, that they belong to each other,” replied Ishmael, with another sneer. “Perhaps they are married native fashion.” “Stop insulting my daughter, sir,” said Mr. Dove angrily. “She would not take a husband as you take your wives, nor if this man is Richard Darrien, as I pray, would he be a party to such a thing. Tell me, are they coming here?”