“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?”
“Not they, they are far too comfortable where they are. Also the Zulus would prevent them. But don’t be sad about it, for I am sent to take you both to join her at the Great Place where you are to live.”
“To join her! It is impossible,” ejaculated Mr. Dove, glancing at his sick wife.
“Impossible or not, you’ve got to come at once, both of you. That is the King’s order and the Inkosazana’s wish, and what is more there is an impi outside to see that you obey. Now I give you five minutes to get ready, and then we start.”
“Man, are you mad? How can my wife travel to Zululand in her state? She cannot walk a step.”