These matters settled, they went into the little camp, and a sentry having been set, for now the night was falling fast, Ishmael was introduced to Mrs. Dove, who looked him up and down and said little, after which they began their supper. When their simple meal was finished, Ishmael lit his pipe and sat himself upon the disselboom of the waggon, looking extremely handsome and picturesque in the flare of the firelight which fell upon his dark face, long black hair and curious garments, for although he had replaced his lion-skin by an old coat, his zebra-hide trousers and waistcoat made of an otter’s pelt still remained. Contemplating him, Rachel felt sure that whatever his present and past might be, he had spoken the truth when he hinted that he was well-born. Indeed, this might be gathered from his voice and method of expressing himself when he grew more at ease, although it was true that sometimes he substituted a Zulu for an English word, and employed its idioms in his sentences, doubtless because for years he had been accustomed to speak and even to think in that language. Now he was explaining to Mr. Dove the political and social position among that people, whose cruel laws and customs led to constant fights on the part of tribes or families, who knew that they were doomed, and their consequent massacre if caught, as had happened that day. Of course, the clergyman, who had lived for some years at Durban, knew that this was true, although, never having actually witnessed one of these dreadful events till now, he did not realise all their horror. “I fear that my task will be even harder than I thought,” he said with a sigh. “What task?” asked Ishmael. “That of converting the Zulus. I am trekking to the king’s kraal now, and propose to settle there.” Ishmael knocked out his pipe and filled it again before he answered. Apparently he could find no words in which to express his thoughts, but when at length these came they were vigorous enough. “Why not trek to hell and settle _there_ at once?” he asked, “I beg pardon, I meant heaven, for you and your likes. Man,” he went on excitedly, “have you any heart? Do you care about your wife and daughter?” “I have always imagined that I did, Mr. Ishmael,” replied the missionary in a cold voice. “Then do you wish to see their throats cut before your eyes, or,” and he looked at Rachel, “worse?” “How can you ask such questions?” said Mr. Dove, indignantly. “Of course I know that there are risks among all wild peoples, but I trust to Providence to protect us.” Mr. Ishmael puffed at his pipe and swore to himself in Zulu.