here. We might well fear to return to that land lest we
also should see ghosts. But though we walk apart to-day, the
past yet looks upon us with its unalterable eyes. Still we
can remember many a boyish enterprise and adventure, lightly
undertaken, which now would strike us as hazardous indeed.
Still we can recall the long familiar line of the Pretoria
Horse, the face of war and panic, the weariness of midnight
patrols; aye, and hear the roar of guns echoed from the
Shameful Hill.

To you then, Macumazahn, in perpetual memory of those
eventful years of youth which we passed together in the
African towns and on the African veldt, I dedicate these
pages, subscribing myself now as always,

Your sincere friend,

Indanda.

To Arthur H. D. Cochrane, Esq.

ALLAN'S WIFE

CHAPTER I

EARLY DAYS

It may be remembered that in the last pages of his diary, written just
before his death, Allan Quatermain makes allusion to his long dead wife,
stating that he has written of her fully elsewhere.

When his death was known, his papers were handed to myself as his
literary executor. Among them I found two manuscripts, of which the
following is one. The other is simply a record of events wherein Mr.
Quatermain was not personally concerned--a Zulu novel, the story of
which was told to him by the hero many years after the tragedy had
occurred. But with this we have nothing to do at present.

I have often thought (Mr. Quatermain's manuscript begins) that I would
set down on paper the events connected with my marriage, and the loss of
my most dear wife. Many years have now passed since that event, and to
some extent time has softened the old grief, though Heaven knows it
is still keen enough. On two or three occasions I have even begun the
record. Once I gave it up because the writing of it depressed me beyond
bearing, once because I was suddenly called away upon a journey, and
the third time because a Kaffir boy found my manuscript convenient for
lighting the kitchen fire.

But now that I am at leisure here in England, I will make a fourth
attempt. If I succeed, the story may serve to interest some one in after
years when I am dead and gone; before that I should not wish it to
be published. It is a wild tale enough, and suggests some curious
reflections.

I am the son of a missionary. My father was originally curate in charge
of a small pari