“Then she can be carried,” answered Ishmael callously. “Come, don’t waste time in talking. Those are my orders, and I am not going to have my throat cut for either of you. If Mrs. Dove won’t dress wrap her up in blankets.”
“You go, John, you go,” whispered his wife, “or they will kill you. Never mind about me; my time has come, and I die happy, for Richard Darrien is with Rachel.”
The mention of Richard’s name seemed to infuriate Ishmael. At any rate he said brutally:
“Are you coming, or must I use force?”
“Coming, you wicked villain! How can I come?” shouted Mr. Dove, for he was mad with grief and rage. “Be off with your savages. I will shoot the first man who lays a finger on my wife,” and as he spoke he snatched a double-barrelled pistol which hung upon the wall and cocked it.
Ishmael turned to the Zulus who stood behind him watching this scene with curiosity.
“Seize the Shouter,” he said, “and bind him. Lift the old woman on her mattress, and carry her. If she dies on the road we cannot help it.”
The captains hesitated, not from fear, but because Mrs. Dove’s condition moved even their savage hearts to pity.
“Why do you not obey?” roared Ishmael. “Dogs and cowards, it is the King’s word. Take her up or you shall die, every man of you, you know how. Knock down the old Evildoer with your sticks if he gives trouble.”
Now the men hesitated no longer. Springing forward, several of them seized the mattress and began to lift it bodily. Mrs. Dove rose and tried to struggle from the bed, then uttered a low moaning cry, fell back, and lay still.