“I hope you have slept well, Rachel; I am, glad to see you looking so fresh. I was afraid that you would be over-tired after your long day. You rode many miles. Of course what you found at Ramah must have been a great shock to you. I want to explain to you quietly that I am not in the least to blame about that terrible business. It was those accursed Zulus who exceeded their orders.” So he went on, pausing between each remark for an answer, but no answer came. At length he stopped, confused, and Rachel, lifting the assegai, examined its blade, and asked him suddenly: “Whose blood is on this spear? Yours?” “A little of it, perhaps,” he answered. “That fool of a Kaffir flourished it about after your father shot him and cut me with it accidentally,” and he pointed to the wound on his face. Rachel bent down and began to rub the blade against the foot of the bench as though to clean it. He did not know what she meant by this act, yet it frightened him. “What are you doing?” he asked. She paused in her task and said, looking up at him: “I do not wish that your blood should defile mine even in death,” and went on with her cleansing of the spear. He watched her for a little while, then broke out: “Curse it all! I don’t understand you. What do you mean?” “Ask the Zulus,” she answered. “They understand me, and they will tell you. Or if there is no time, ask my father and mother—afterwards.” Ishmael paled visibly, then recovered himself with an effort and said: “Let us finish with all this witch-doctor nonsense, and come to business. I had nothing to do with the death of your parents, indeed, I was wounded in trying to protect them——” “Then why do I see both of them behind you with such accusing eyes?” she asked quietly. He stalled, turned his head and stared about him. “You won’t frighten me like that,” he went on. “I am not a silly Kaffir, so give it up. Look here, Rachel, you know I have loved you for a long while, and though you treat me so badly I love you more than ever now. Will you marry me?” “I told you last night that you would be dead in a few days. Do not waste your time in talking of marriage. Sit in the dust and repent your sins before you go down into the dust.” “All right, Rachel, I know you are a good prophet——” “Noie, too, is a good prophet,” she broke in reflectively. “You used the Zulus to kill _her_ father and mother also, did you not? Do you remember a message that she gave you from Seyapi one evening, down by the sea, before you kidnapped her to be a bait to trap me in Zululand?” “Remember!” he answered, scowling. “Am I likely to forget her devilries? If you are the witch, she is the familiar, the black _ehlosé_ (spirit) who whispers in your ears. Had she not gone I should never have caught you.” “But she will come back—although I fear not in time to bid you farewell.”