I was awakened on my wedding morning by the crash and bellowing of a great thunderstorm.  The lightning flashed fearfully all about us, killing two oxen quite near to my wagon, and the thunder rolled and echoed till the very earth seemed to shake.  Then came a wail of cold wind, and after that the swish of torrential rain.  Although I was well accustomed to such natural manifestations, especially at this season of the year, I confess that these sights and sounds did not tend to raise my spirits, which were already lower than they should have been on that eventful day.  Hans, however, who arrived to help me put on my best clothes for the ceremony, was for once consoling.

“Don’t look sick, baas,” he said, “for if there is storm in the morning, there is shine at night.”

“Yes,” I answered, speaking more to myself than to him, “but what will happen between the storm of the morning and the peace of the night?”

It was arranged that the commission, which, counting the native after-riders, consisted of over a hundred people, among them several boys, who were little more than children, was to ride at one hour before noon.  Nobody could get about to make the necessary preparations until the heavy rain had passed away, which it did a little after eight o’clock.  Therefore when I left the wagon to eat, or try to eat some breakfast, I found the whole camp in a state of bustle.

Boers were shouting to their servants, horses were being examined, women were packing the saddle-bags of their husbands and fathers with spare clothes, the pack-beasts were being laden with biltong and other provisions, and so forth.

In the midst of all this tumult I began to wonder whether my private business would not be forgotten, since it seemed unlikely that time could be found for marriages.  However, about ten o’clock when, having done everything that I had to do, I was sitting disconsolately upon my wagon box, being too shy to mix with that crowd of busy mockers or to go to the Prinsloos’ camp to make inquiries, the vrouw herself appeared.

“Come on, Allan,” she said, “the commandant is waiting and swearing because you are not there.  Also, there is another waiting, and oh! she looks lovely.  When they see her, every man in the camp will want her for himself, whether he has got a wife or not, for in that matter, although you mayn’t think so just now, they are all the same as the Kaffirs.  Oh!  I know them, I know them, a white skin makes no difference.”

While she held forth thus in her usual outspoken fashion, the vrouw was dragging me along by the hand, just as though I were a naughty little boy.  Nor could I get free from that mighty grip, or, when once her great bulk was in motion, match my weight against it.  Of course, some of the younger Boers, who, knowing her errand, had followed her, set up a shout of cheers and laughter, which attracted everybody to the procession.