“I am dying,” he cried; “my life is bleeding away, but before I die I must speak.  All that story I told against the Englishman is false.  He never plotted with Dingaan against the Boers.  It was I who plotted with Dingaan.  Although I hated him because he found me out, I did not wish Retief and our people to be killed.  But I did wish Allan Quatermain to be killed, because he had won her whom I loved, though, as it happened, all the others were slain, and he alone escaped.  Then I came here and learned that Marie was his wife—­yes, his wife indeed—­and grew mad with hate and jealousy.  So I bore false witness against him, and, you fools, you believed me and ordered me to shoot him who is innocent before God and man.  Then things went wrong.  The woman tricked me again—­for the last time.  She dressed herself as the man, and in the dawnlight I was deceived.  I killed her, her whom I love alone, and now her father, who loved her also, has killed me.”

By this time I understood all, for my drugged brain had awakened at last.  I ran to the brute upon the ground; grotesque in my woman’s garments all awry, I leaped on him and stamped out the last of his life.  Then, standing over his dead body, I shook my fists and cried: 

“Men, see what you have done.  May God pay you back all you owe her and me!”

They dismounted, they came round me, they protested, they even wept.  And I, I raved at them upon the one side, while the mad Henri Marais raved upon the other; and the Vrouw Prinsloo, waving her big arms, called down the curse of God and the blood of the innocent upon their heads and those of their children for ever.

Then I remember no more.

When I came to myself two weeks afterwards, for I had been very ill and in delirium, I was lying in the house of the Vrouw Prinsloo alone.  The Boers had all gone, east and west and north and south, and the dead were long buried.  They had taken Henri Marais with them, so I was told, dragging him away in a bullock cart, to which he was tied, for he was raving mad.  Afterwards he became quieter, and, indeed, lived for years, walking about and asking all whom he met if they could lead him to Marie.  But enough of him—­poor man, poor man!

The tale which got about was that Pereira had murdered Marie out of jealousy, and been shot by her father.  But there were so many tragic histories in those days of war and massacre that this particular one was soon quite forgotten, especially as those concerned in it for one reason and another did not talk overmuch of its details.  Nor did I talk of it, since no vengeance could mend my broken heart.

They brought me a letter that had been found on Marie’s breast, stained with her blood.

Here it is: 

“MY HUSBAND,

“Thrice have you saved my life, and now it is my turn to save yours, for there is no other path.  It may be that they will kill you afterwards, but if so, I shall be glad to have died first in order that I may be ready to greet you in the land beyond.