That evening, after we had eaten, Heer Marais asked my father and myself to speak with him in the sitting-room.  By an afterthought also, or so it seemed to me, he told his daughter, who had been clearing away the dishes and with whom as yet I had found no opportunity to talk, to come in with us and close the door behind her.

When all were seated and we men had lit our pipes, though apprehension of what was to follow quite took away my taste for smoking, Marais spoke in English, which he knew to a certain extent.  This was for the benefit of my father, who made it a point of honour not to understand Dutch, although he would answer Marais in that language when he pretended not to understand English.  To me he spoke in Dutch, and occasionally in French to Marie.  It was a most curious and polyglot conversation.

“Young Allan,” he said, “and you, daughter Marie, I have heard stories concerning you that, although I never gave you leave to ‘opsit’” (that is, to sit up alone at night with candles, according to the Boer fashion between those who are courting), “you have been making love to each other.”

“That is true, mynheer,” I said.  “I only waited an opportunity to tell you that we plighted our troth during the attack of the Quabies on this house.”

“Allemachte!  Allan, a strange time to choose,” answered Marais, pulling at his beard; “the troth that is plighted in blood is apt to end in blood.”

“A vain superstition to which I cannot consent,” interrupted my father.

“Perhaps so,” I answered.  “I know not; God alone knows.  I only know that we plighted our troth when we thought ourselves about to die, and that we shall keep that troth till death ends it.”

“Yes, my father,” added Marie, leaning forward across the scored yellow-wood table, her chin resting on her hand and her dark, buck-like eyes looking him in the face.  “Yes, my father, that is so, as I have told you already.”

“And I tell you, Marie, what I have told you already, and you too, Allan, that this thing may not be,” answered Marais, hitting the table with his fist.  “I have nothing to say against you, Allan; indeed, I honour you, and you have done me a mighty service, but it may not be.”

“Why not, mynheer?” I asked.

“For three reasons, Allan, each of which is final.  You are English, and I do not wish my daughter to marry an Englishman; that is the first.  You are poor, which is no discredit to you, and since I am now ruined my daughter cannot marry a poor man; that is the second.  You live here, and my daughter and I are leaving this country, therefore you cannot marry her; that is the third,” and he paused.

“Is there not a fourth,” I asked, “which is the real reason?  Namely, that you wish your daughter to marry someone else.”

“Yes, Allan; since you force me to it, there is a fourth.  I have affianced my daughter to her cousin, Hernando Pereira, a man of substance and full age; no lad, but one who knows his own mind and can support a wife.”