“Please don’t apologise. It was quite natural, and what is more, all for the best. If we had gone on we should have ridden right into them, and perhaps never ridden out again. Now here comes my father; we have agreed that you will not say too much about this girl, have we not?” He nodded and advanced with her, leading the horses, for he had dismounted, to meet Mr. Dove at the opening in the fence. “Good evening,” said the clergyman, who seemed depressed after his sad task, as he motioned to one of the Kaffirs to put down his mattock and take the horses. “I don’t quite know what happened this morning, but I have to thank you for trying to save my daughter from those cruel men. I have been burying their victims in a little cleft that we found, or rather some of them. The vultures you know——” and he paused. “I didn’t save her, sir,” answered the stranger humbly. “It seemed hopeless, as she would not leave the Kaffir girl.” Mr. Dove looked at him searchingly, and there was a suspicion of contempt in his voice as he replied: “You would not have had her abandon the poor thing, would you? For the rest, God saved them both, so it does not much matter exactly how, as everything has turned out for the best. Won’t you come in and have some supper, Mr.—Ishmael—I am afraid I do not know the rest of your name.” “There is no more to know, Mr. Dove,” he replied doggedly, then added: “Look here, sir, as I daresay you have found out, this is a rough country, and people come to it, some of them, whose luck has been rough elsewhere. Now, perhaps I am as well born as you are, and perhaps _my_ luck was rough in other lands, so that I chose to come and live in a place where there are no laws or civilisation. Perhaps, too, I took the name of another man who was driven into the wilderness—you will remember all about him—also that it does not seem to have been his fault. Any way, if we should be thrown up together I’ll ask you to take me as I am, that is, a hunter and a trader ‘in the Zulu,’ and not to bother about what I have been. Whatever I was christened, my name is Ishmael now, or among the Kaffirs Ibubesi, and if you want another, let us call it Smith.” “Quite so, Mr. Ishmael. It is no affair of mine,” replied Mr. Dove with a smile, for he had met people of this sort before in Africa. But within himself already he determined that this white and perchance fallen wanderer was one whom, perhaps, it would be his duty to lead back into the paths of Christian propriety and peace.