“The paper is done, and the messenger is going; also the sick child is dying and I must attend to her.  Will this letter ever come to your hands, I wonder?  I am sending with it the little money I have to pay for its delivery—­about four pounds English.  If not, there is an end.  If it does, and you cannot come or send others, at least pray for us.  I dream of you by night and think of you by day, for how much I love you I cannot tell.

“In life or death I am

“Your MARIE.”

Such was this awful letter.  I still have it; it lies before me, those ragged sheets of paper covered with faint pencil-writing that is blotted here and there with tear marks, some of them the tears of Marie who wrote, some of them the tears of me who read.  I wonder if there exists a more piteous memorial of the terrible sufferings of the trek-Boers, and especially of such of them as forced their way into the poisonous veld around Delagoa, as did this Marais expedition and those under the command of Triechard.  Better, like many of their people, to have perished at once by the spears of Umzilikazi and other savages than to endure these lingering tortures of fever and starvation.

As I finished reading this letter my father, who had been out visiting some of his Mission Kaffirs, entered the house, and I went into the sitting-room to meet him.

“Why, Allan, what is the matter with you?” he asked, noting my tear-stained face.

I gave him the letter, for I could not speak, and with difficulty he deciphered it.

“Merciful God, what dreadful news!” he said when he had finished.  “Those poor people! those poor, misguided people!  What can be done for them?”

“I know one thing that can be done, father, or at any rate can be attempted.  I can try to reach them.”

“Are you mad?” he asked.  “How is it possible for you, one man, to get to Delagoa Bay, buy cattle, and rescue these folk, who probably are now all dead?”

“The first two things are possible enough, father.  Some ship will take me to the Bay.  You have Marais’s money, and I have that five hundred pounds which my old aunt in England left me last year.  Thank Heaven! owing to my absence on commando, it still lies untouched in the bank at Port Elizabeth.  That is about eight hundred pounds in all, which would buy a great many cattle and other things.  As for the third, it is not in our hands, is it?  It may be that they cannot be rescued, it may be that they are dead.  I can only go to see.”

“But, Allan, Allan, you are my only son, and if you go it is probable that I shall never see you more.”

“I have been through more dangers lately, father, and am still alive and well.  Moreover, if Marie is dead”—­I paused, then went on passionately—­“Do not try to stop me, for I tell you, father, I will not be stopped.  Think of the words in that letter and what a shameless hound I should be if I sat here quiet while Marie is dying yonder.  Would you have done so if Marie had been my mother?”