“’Friend, I write to ask you something because I trust you more than these slim agents.  Half the price, a very poor one, that I have for my farm is still unpaid to me by Jacobus van der Merve, who remains behind and buys up all our lands.  It is #100 English, due this day year, and I enclose you power of attorney to receive and give receipt for the same.  Also there is due to me from your British Government #253 on account of slaves liberated which were worth quite #1,000.  This also the paper gives you authority to receive.  As regards my claims against the said cursed Government because of the loss brought on me by the Quabie Kaffirs, it will not acknowledge them, saying that the attack was caused by the Frenchman Leblanc, one of my household.’”

“And with good reason,” commented my father.

“’When you have received these monies, if ever, I pray you take some safe opportunity of sending them to me, wherever I may be, which doubtless you will hear in due course, although by that time I hope to be rich again and not to need money.  Farewell and God be with you, as I hope He will be with me and Marie and the rest of us trek-Boers.  The bearer will overtake us with your answer at our first outspan.

“‘Henri Marais.’”

“Well,” said my father with a sigh, “I suppose I must accept his trust, though why he should choose an ‘accursed Englishman’ with whom he has quarrelled violently to collect his debts instead of one of his own beloved Boers, I am sure I do not know.  I will go and write to him.  Allan, see that the messenger and his horse get something to eat.”

I nodded and went to the man, who was one of those that had defended Maraisfontein with me, a good fellow unless he got near liquor.

“Heer Allan,” he said, looking round to see that we were not overheard, “I have a little writing for you also,” and he produced from his pouch a note that was unaddressed.

I tore it open eagerly.  Within was written in French, which no Boer would understand if the letter fell into his hands: 

“Be brave and faithful, and remember, as I shall.  Oh! love of my heart, adieu, adieu!”

This message was unsigned; but what need was there of signature?

I wrote an answer of a sort that may be imagined, though what the exact words were I cannot remember after the lapse of nearly half a century.  Oddly enough, it is the things I said which I recall at such a distance of time rather than the things which I wrote, perhaps because, when once written, my mind being delivered, troubled itself with them no more.  So in due course the Hottentot departed with my father’s letter and my own, and that was the last direct communication which we had with Henri or Marie Marais for more than a year.

I think that those long months were on the whole the most wretched I have ever spent.  The time of life which I was passing through is always trying; that period of emergence from youth into full and responsible manhood which in Africa generally takes place earlier than it does here in England, where young men often seem to me to remain boys up to five-and-twenty.  The circumstances which I have detailed made it particularly so in my own case, for here was I, who should have been but a cheerful lad, oppressed with the sorrows and anxieties, and fettered by the affections of maturity.