“I wonder if you are mad, or only wicked, Henri Marais,” he said.  “To curse your own sweet girl like this you must be one or the other—­a single child 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 Marie and I wished to forget.

“I hope you will come to our wedding to-morrow,” I added, “and wipe them out with a father’s blessing.”

“To-morrow!  Are you really going to be married to-morrow?” he exclaimed, his sallow face twitching nervously.  “O God, it was another man that I dreamed to see standing by Marie’s side.  But he is not here; he has disgraced and deserted me.  Well, I will come, if my gaolers will suffer it.  Good-bye, you happy bridegroom of to-morrow, good-bye.”