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.
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.
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