ded but sufficient light, especially as it always stood
open; the ceiling was of unplastered reeds; a large bookcase stood in
the corner containing many French works, most of them the property of
Monsieur Leblanc, and in the centre of the room was the strong, rough
table made of native yellow-wood, that once had served as a butcher's
block. I recollect also a coloured print of the great Napoleon
commanding at some battle in which he was victorious, seated upon a
white horse and waving a field-marshal's baton over piles of dead and
wounded; and near the window, hanging to the reeds of the ceiling,
the nest of a pair of red-tailed swallows, pretty creatures that,
notwithstanding the mess they made, afforded to Marie and me endless
amusement in the intervals of our work.

When, on that day, I shuffled shyly into this homely place, and,
thinking myself alone there, fell to examining it, suddenly I was
brought to a standstill by a curious choking sound which seemed to
proceed from the shadows behind the bookcase. Wondering as to its cause,
I advanced cautiously to discover a pink-clad shape standing in the
corner like a naughty child, with her head resting against the wall, and
sobbing slowly.

"Marie Marais, why do you cry?" I asked.

She turned, tossing back the locks of long, black hair which hung about
her face, and answered:

"Allan Quatermain, I cry because of the shame which has been put upon
you and upon our house by that drunken Frenchman."

"What of that?" I asked. "He only called me a pig, but I think I have
shown him that even a pig has tusks."

"Yes," she replied, "but it was not you he meant; it was all the
English, whom he hates; and the worst of it is that my father is of his
mind. He, too, hates the English, and, oh! I am sure that trouble will
come of his hatred, trouble and death to many."

"Well, if so, we have nothing to do with it, have we?" I replied with
the cheerfulness of extreme youth.

"What makes you so sure?" she said solemnly. "Hush! here comes Monsieur
Leblanc."

CHAPTER II. THE ATTACK ON MARAISFONTEIN

I do not propose to set out the history of the years which I spent in
acquiring a knowledge of French and various other subjects, under the
tuition of the learned but prejudiced Monsieur Leblanc. Indeed, there
is "none to tell, sir." When Monsieur Leblanc was sober, he was a most
excellent and well-informed tutor, although one apt to digress into many
side issues, which in th