“It is too late to hang back now, Englishman.”  “You must make the best of a bad business.”  “If you wanted to change your mind, you should have done it before,” men and women roared and screamed with many other such bantering words, till at length I felt myself turn the colour of a red vlei lily.

So we came at last to where Marie stood, the centre of an admiring circle.  She was clothed in a soft white gown made of some simple but becoming stuff, and she wore upon her dark hair a wreath woven by the other maidens in the camp, a bevy of whom stood behind her.

Now we were face to face.  Our eyes met, and oh! hers were full of love and trust.  They dazzled and bewildered me.  Feeling that I ought to speak, and not knowing what to say, I merely stammered “Good morning,” whereon everyone broke into a roar of laughter, except Vrouw Prinsloo, who exclaimed: 

“Did any one ever see such a fool?” and even Marie smiled.

Then Piet Retief appeared from somewhere dressed in tall boots and rough riding clothes, such as the Boers wore in those days.  Handing the roer he was carrying to one of his sons, after much fumbling he produced a book from his pocket, in which the place was marked with a piece of grass.

“Now then,” he said, “be silent, all, and show respect, for remember I am not a man just now.  I am a parson, which is quite a different thing, and, being a commandant and a veld cornet and other officers all rolled into one, by virtue of the law I am about to marry these young people, so help me God.  Don’t any of you witnesses ever say afterwards that they are not rightly and soundly married, because I tell you that they are, or will be.”  He paused for breath, and someone said, “Hear, hear,” or its Dutch equivalent, whereon, having glared the offender into silence, Retief proceeded: 

“Young man and young woman, what are your names?”

“Don’t ask silly questions, commandant,” broke in Vrouw Prinsloo; “you know their names well enough.”

“Of course I do, aunt,” he answered; “but for this purpose I must pretend not to know them.  Are you better acquainted with the law than I am?  But stay, where is the father, Henri Marais?”

Someone thrust Marais forward, and there he stood quite silent, staring at us with a queer look upon his face and his gun in his hand, for he, too, was ready to ride.

“Take away that gun,” said Retief; “it might go off and cause disturbance or perhaps accidents,” and somebody obeyed.  “Now, Henri Marais, do you give your daughter to be married to this man?”

“No,” said Marais softly.

“Very well, that is just like you, but it doesn’t matter, for she is of age and can give herself.  Is she not of age, Henri Marais?  Don’t stand there like a horse with the staggers, but tell me; is she not of age?”

“I believe so,” he answered in the same soft voice.

“Then take notice, people all, that this woman is of age, and gives herself to be married to this man, don’t you, my dear?”