It was on the third day of our trek, when we were drawing near to the Tugela, that we met the Boer embassy, off-saddled by a little stream where we proposed to outspan to rest the oxen while we ate our midday meal.  They were sleeping in the heat of the day and saw nothing of us till we were right on to them, when, catching sight of our Zulu advance guard, they sprang up and ran for their rifles.  Then the wagons emerged from the bush, and they stared astonished, wondering who could be trekking in that country.

We called to them in Dutch not to be afraid and in another minute we were among them.  While we were yet some way off my eye fell upon a burly, white-bearded man whose figure seemed to be familiar to me, and towards him I went, taking no heed of the others, of whom there may have been six or seven.  Soon I was sure, and advancing with outstretched hand, said: 

“Good-day, Mynheer Piet Retief.  Who would have thought that we who parted so far away and so long ago would live to meet among the Zulus?”

He stared at me.

“Who is it?  Who is it?  Allemachte!  I know now.  The little Englishman, Allan Quatermain, who shot the geese down in the Old Colony.  Well, I should not be surprised, for the man you beat in that match told me that you were travelling in these parts.  Only I understood him to say that the Zulus had killed you.”

“If you mean Hernan Pereira,” I answered, “where did you meet him?”

“Why, down by the Tugela there, in a bad way.  However, he can tell you all about that himself, for I have brought him with me to show us the path to Dingaan’s kraal.  Where is Pereira?  Send Pereira here.  I want to speak with him.”

“Here I am,” answered a sleepy voice, the hated voice of Pereira himself, from the other side of a thick bush, where he had been slumbering.  “What is it, commandant?  I come,” and he emerged, stretching himself and yawning, just as the remainder of my party came up.  He caught sight of Henri Marais first of all, and began to greet him, saying:  “Thank God, my uncle, you are safe!”

Then his eyes fell on me, and I do not think I ever saw a man’s face change more completely.  His jaw dropped, the colour left his cheeks, leaving them of the yellow which is common to persons of Portuguese descent; his outstretched hand fell to his side.

“Allan Quatermain!” he ejaculated.  “Why, I thought that you were dead.”

“As I should have been, Mynheer Pereira, twice over if you could have had your way,” I replied.

“What do you mean, Allan?” broke in Retief.

“I will tell you what he means,” exclaimed the Vrouw Prinsloo, shaking her fat fist at Pereira.  “That yellow dog means that twice he has tried to murder Allan—­Allan, who saved his life and ours.  Once he shot at him in a kloof and grazed his cheek; look, there is the scar of it.  And once he plotted with the Zulus to slaughter him, telling Dingaan that he was an evildoer and a wizard, who would bring a curse upon his land.”