“Who told you that was my native name?”
asked Rachel, springing back.
“It was in the message, O thou before whom kings
shall bow.”
“Nonsense,” exclaimed Rachel, “you
have heard it from our people.”
“So be it, Lady; I have heard it from your people
whom I have never seen. Now let us go, your father
is troubled for you.”
Again Rachel looked at her sideways, and Noie went
on:
“Lady, from henceforth I am your servant, am
I not? and that service will not be light.”
“She thinks I shall make her dig,” thought
Rachel to herself, as the girl continued in her low,
soft voice:
“Now I ask you one thing—when I tell
you my story, let it be for your breast alone.
Say only that I am a common girl whom you saved from
the soldier.”
“Why not?” answered Rachel. “That
is all I have to tell.”
Then once more they went on, Rachel wondering if she
dreamed, the girl Noie walking at her side, stern
and cold-faced as a statue.
THE CASTING OF THE LOTS
They reached the crest of the last rise, and there,
facing them on the slope of the opposite wave of land,
stood the waggon, surrounded by the thorn fence, within
which the cattle and horses were still enclosed, doubtless
for fear of the Zulus. Nothing could be more peaceful
than the aspect of that camp. To look at it no
one would have believed that within a few hundred
yards a hideous massacre had just taken place.
Presently, however, voices began to shout, and heads
to bob up over the fence. Then it occurred to
Rachel that they must think she was a prisoner in the
charge of a Zulu, and she told Noie to lower the shield
which she still held in front of her. The next
instant some thorns were torn out, and her father,
a gun in his hand, appeared striding towards them.
“Thank God that you are safe,” he said
as they met. “I have suffered great anxiety,
although I hoped that the white man Israel—no,
Ishmael—had rescued you. He came here
to warn us,” he added in explanation, “very
early this morning, then galloped off to find you.
Indeed his after-rider, whose horse he took, is still
here. Where on earth have you been, Rachel, and”—suddenly
becoming aware of Noie, who, arrayed only in a towel,
a shield, and a stabbing spear, presented a curious
if an impressive spectacle—“who is
this young person?”
“She is a native girl I saved from the massacre,”
replied Rachel, answering the last question first.
“It is a long story, but I shot the man who
was going to kill her, and we hid in a pool. Are
you all safe, and where is mother?”
“Shot the man! Shed human blood! Hid
in a pool!” ejaculated Mr. Dove, overcome.
“Really, Rachel, you are a most trying daughter.
Why should you go out before daybreak and do such
things?”
“I don’t know, I am sure, father; predestination,
I suppose—to save her life, you know.”
