He came to the kraal Mafooti. It was utterly deserted, and he wandered amidst its ashes. Here and there he found the bones of those who had perished in the fire, and turned them over with his staff wondering whether any of them had belonged to Rachel. In that place he slept a night thinking that perhaps his journey was ended, and that here he would die where he believed Rachel had died. But when he waked at the dawn, it was to find that something within him still drew him towards the north, more strongly indeed than ever before. So he left what had been the town Mafooti. Walking along the edge of the cleft into which Ishmael had leapt on fire, he climbed the walls built with so much toil to keep out the Zulus, and at last came to the river which Rachel had swum. It was low now, and wading it he entered Zululand. Here the natives seemed to know of his approach, for they gathered in numbers watching him, and put food in his path. But they would not speak to him, and when he addressed them saying that he followed a Dream and asking if they had seen the Dream, they cried out that he was _tagali_, bewitched, and fled away. He continued his journey, finding each night a hut prepared for him to sleep in, and food for him to eat, till at length one evening he reached the Great Place, Umgugundhlovu. Through its streets he marched with a set face, while thousands stared at him in silence. Then a captain pointed out a hut to him, and into it he entered, ate and slept. At dawn he rose, for he knew that here he must not tarry; the spirit face of Rachel still hung before him, the spirit voice still whispered—“_Forward, forward to the north. I myself will be your guide_.” In his path sat the King and his Councillors, and around them a regiment of men. He walked through them unheeding, till at length, when he was in front of the King, they barred his road, and he halted. “Who art thou and what is thy business?” asked an old Councillor with a withered hand. “I am Richard Darrien,” he answered, “and here I have no business. I journey to the north. Stay me not.” “We know thee,” said the Councillor, “thou art the lord Dario that didst dwell in the shadow of the Inkosazana. Thou art the white chief whom the wild beast, Ibubesi, slew at the kraal Mafooti. Why does thy ghost come hither to trouble us?” “Living or dead, ghost or man, I travel to the north. Stay me not,” he answered. “What seekest thou in the north, thou lord Dario?” “I seek a Dream; a Spirit leads me to find a Dream. Seest thou it not, Man with the withered hand?” “Ah!” they repeated, “he seeks a Dream. A Spirit leads him to find a Dream in the north.” “What is this Dream like?” asked Mopo of the withered hand. “Come, stand at my side and look. There, dost thou see it floating in the air before us, thou who hast eyes that can read a Dream?” Mopo came and looked, then his knees trembled a little and he said: “Aye, lord Dario, I see and I know that face.”