Now the events of that particular war have nothing to do with the history that I am telling, so I do not propose even to touch on them.  I served in it for a year, meeting with many adventures, one or two successes, and several failures.  Once I was wounded slightly, twice I but just escaped with my life.  Once I was reprimanded for taking a foolish risk and losing some men.  Twice I was commended for what were called gallant actions, such as bringing a wounded comrade out of danger under a warm fire, mostly of assegais, and penetrating by night, almost alone, into the stronghold of a chieftain, and shooting him.

At length that war was patched up with an inconclusive peace and my corps was disbanded.  I returned home, no longer a lad, but a man with experience of various kinds and a rather unique knowledge of Kaffirs, their languages, history, and modes of thought and action.  Also I had associated a good deal with British officers, and from them acquired much that I had found no opportunity of studying before, especially, I hope, the ideas and standards of English gentlemen.

I had not been back at the Mission Station more than three weeks, quite long enough for me to begin to be bored with idleness and inactivity, when that call for which I had been waiting came at last.

One day a “smous”, that is a low kind of white man, often a Jew, who travels about trading with unsophisticated Boers and Kaffirs, and cheating them if he can, called at the station with his cartful of goods.  I was about to send him away, having no liking for such gentry, when he asked me if I were named Allan Quatermain.  I said “Yes,” whereon he replied that he had a letter for me, and produced a packet wrapped up in sail-cloth.  I asked him whence he had it, and he answered from a man whom he had met at Port Elizabeth, an east coast trader, who, hearing that he was coming into the Cradock district, entrusted him with the letter.  The man told him that it was very important, and that I should reward the bearer well if it were delivered safely.

While the Jew talked (I think he was a Jew) I was opening the sail-cloth.  Within was a piece of linen which had been oiled to keep out water, addressed in some red pigment to myself or my father.  This, too, I opened, not without difficulty, for it was carefully sewn up, and found within it a letter-packet, also addressed to myself or my father, in the handwriting of Marie.

Great Heaven!  How my heart jumped at that sight!  Calling to Hans to make the smous comfortable and give him food, I went into my own room, and there read the letter, which ran thus: