“Allemachte!” exclaimed Retief; “that is a fair offer.  But how do I know, nephew, that when we came to read the treaty we should not find that it granted all the land to you English and not to us Boers?  No, no, don’t look angry.  That was not a right thing to say, for you are honest whatever most of your blood may be.  Nephew Allan, you who are a brave man, are afraid of this journey.  Now, why is that, I wonder?  Ah!  I have it.  I had forgotten.  You are to be married to-morrow morning to a very pretty girl, and it is not natural that you should wish to spend the next fortnight in Zululand.  Don’t you see, brothers, he wants to get out of it because he is going to be married, as it is natural that he should, and therefore he tries to frighten us all?  When we were going to be married, should we have wished to ride away at once to visit some stinking savage?  Ach!  I am glad I thought of that just as I was beginning to turn his gloomy colour, like a chameleon on a black hat, for it explains everything,” and he struck his thigh with his big hand and burst into a roar of laughter.

All the company of Boers who stood around began to laugh also, uproariously, for this primitive joke appealed to them.  Moreover, their nerves were strained; they also dreaded this expedition, and therefore they were glad to relieve themselves in bucolic merriment.  Everything was clear to them now.  Feeling myself in honour bound to go on the embassy, as I was their only interpreter, I, artful dog, was trying to play upon their fears in order to prevent it from starting, so that I might have a week or two of the company of my new-wed wife.  They saw and appreciated the joke.

“He’s slim, this little Englishman,” shouted one.

“Don’t be angry with him.  We should have done as much ourselves,” replied another.

“Leave him behind,” said a third.  “Even the Zulus do not send a new-married man on service.”  Then they smacked me on the back, and hustled me in their rude, kindly manner, till at length I fell into a rage and hit one of them on the nose, at which he only laughed the louder, although I made it bleed.

“See here, friends,” I said, as soon as silence was restored; “married or no, whoever does not ride to Dingaan, I ride to him, although it is against my judgment.  Let those laugh loudest who laugh last.”

“Good!” cried one; “if you set the pace we shall soon be home again, Allan Quatermain.  Who would not with Marie Marais at the end of the journey?”

Then, followed by their rough and mocking laughter, I broke away from them, and took refuge in my wagon, little guessing that all this talk would be brought up against me on a day to come.

In a certain class of uneducated mind foresight is often interpreted as guilty knowledge.

CHAPTER XVII

THE MARRIAGE