ild who has always been good to you. Well, as you are to ride
with me on Monday, I pray that you will keep your temper under control,
lest it should bring us into trouble, and you also. As for you, Marie,
my dear, do not fret because a wild beast has tried to toss you with his
horns, although he happens to be your father. On Monday morning you
pass out of his power into your own, and on that day I will marry you to
Allan Quatermain here. Meanwhile, I think you are safest away from this
father of yours, who might take to cutting your throat instead of that
tobacco. Vrouw Prinsloo, be so good as to look after Marie Marais, and
on Monday morning next bring her before me to be wed. Until then, Henri
Marais, I, as commandant, shall set a guard over you, with orders to
seize you if it should be necessary. Now I advise you to take a walk,
and when you are calm again, to pray God to forgive you your wicked
words, lest they should be fulfilled and drag you down to judgment."

Then we all went, leaving Henri Marais still cutting up his tobacco on
the disselboom.

On the Sunday I met Marais walking about the camp, followed by the guard
whom Retief had set over him. To my surprise he greeted me almost with
affection.

"Allan," he said, "you must not misunderstand me. I do not really wish
ill to Marie, whom I love more dearly than I do my life; God alone knows
how much I love her. But I made a promise to her cousin, Hernan, my only
sister's only child, and you will understand that I cannot break that
promise, although Hernan has disappointed me in many ways--yes, in
many ways. But if he is bad, as they say, it comes with that Portuguese
blood, which is a misfortune that he cannot help, does it not? However
bad he may be, as an honest man I am bound to keep my promise, am I not?
Also, Allan, you must remember that you are English, and although you
may be a good fellow in yourself, that is a fault which you cannot
expect me to forgive. Still, if it is fated that you should marry my
daughter and breed English children--Heaven above! to think of it,
English children!--well, there is nothing more to be said. Don't
remember the words I spoke to Marie. Indeed, I can't remember them
myself. When I grow angry, a kind of rush of blood comes into my brain,
and then I forget what I have said," and he stretched out his hand to
me.

I shook it and answered that I understood he was not himself when he
spoke those dreadful words, which both Mar