At last there is a rustling of the bushes.  An animal springs upon me!

I am going to cry out, to give the alarm.  Fortunately, I was able to restrain myself.  I cannot believe my eyes!  It is Dingo!  Dingo, who is near me!  Brave Dingo!  How is it restored to me?  How has it been able to find me again?  Ah! instinct!  Would instinct be sufficient to explain such miracles of fidelity?  It licks my hands.  Ah! good dog, now my only friend, they have not killed you, then!

It understands me.

I return its caresses.

It wants to bark.

I calm it.  It must not be heard.

Let it follow the caravan in this way, without being seen, and perhaps——­But what!  It rubs its neck obstinately against my hands.  It seems to say to me:  “Look for something.”  I look, and I feel something there, fastened to its neck.  A piece of reed is slipped under the collar, on which are graven those two letters, S.V., the mystery of which is still inexplicable to us.

Yes.  I have unfastened the reed.  I have broken it!  There is a letter inside.  But this letter—­I cannot read it.  I must wait for daylight!—­daylight!  I should like to keep Dingo; but the good animal, even while licking my hands, seems in a hurry to leave me.  It understands that its mission is finished.  With one bound aside, it disappears among the bushes without noise.  May God spare it from the lions’ and hyenas’ teeth!

Dingo has certainly returned to him who sent it to me.

This letter, that I cannot yet read, burns my hands!  Who has written it?  Would it come from Mrs. Weldon?  Does it come from Hercules?  How has the faithful animal, that we believed dead, met either the one or the other?  What is this letter going to tell me?  Is it a plan of escape that it brings me?  Or does it only give me news of those dear to me?  Whatever it may be, this incident has greatly moved me, and has relaxed my misery.

Ah! the day comes so slowly.  I watch for the least light on the horizon.  I cannot close my eyes.  I still hear the roaring of the animals.  My poor Dingo, can you escape them?  At last day is going to appear, and almost without dawn, under these tropical latitudes.

I settle myself so as not to be seen.  I try to read—­I cannot yet.  At last I have read.  The letter is from Hercules’s hand.  It is written on a bit of paper, in pencil.  Here is what it says: 

“Mrs. Weldon was taken away with little Jack in a kitanda.  Harris and Negoro accompany it.  They precede the caravan by three or four marches, with Cousin Benedict.  I have not been able to communicate with her.  I have found Dingo, who must have been wounded by a shot, but cured.  Good hope, Mr. Dick.  I only think of you all, and I fled to be more useful to you.  HERCULES.”

Ah!  Mrs. Weldon and her son are living.  God be praised!  They have not to suffer the fatigues of these rude halting-places.  A kitanda—­it