In fact, it may as well be said at once that the poor man was a drunkard, which explains how he, with all his high education and great ability, came to hold the humble post of tutor on a remote Boer farm.  Years before, when under the influence of drink, he had committed some crime in France—­I don’t know what it was, and never inquired—­and fled to the Cape to avoid prosecution.  Here he obtained a professorship at one of the colleges, but after a while appeared in the lecture-room quite drunk and lost his employment.  The same thing happened in other towns, till at last he drifted to distant Maraisfontein, where his employer tolerated his weakness for the sake of the intellectual companionship for which something in his own nature seemed to crave.  Also, he looked upon him as a compatriot in distress, and a great bond of union between them was their mutual and virulent hatred of England and the English, which in the case of Monsieur Leblanc, who in his youth had fought at Waterloo and been acquainted with the great Emperor, was not altogether unnatural.

Henri Marais’s case was different, but of that I shall have more to say later.

“Ah, Marie,” said her father, speaking in Dutch, “so you have found him at last,” and he nodded towards me, adding:  “You should be flattered, little man.  Look you, this missie has been sitting for two hours in the sun waiting for you, although I told her you would not arrive much before ten o’clock, as your father the predicant said you would breakfast before you started.  Well, it is natural, for she is lonely here, and you are of an age, although of a different race”; and his face darkened as he spoke the words.

“Father,” answered Marie, whose blushes I could see even in the shadow of her cap, “I was not sitting in the sun, but under the shade of a peach tree.  Also, I was working out the sums that Monsieur Leblanc set me on my slate.  See, here they are,” and she held up the slate, which was covered with figures, somewhat smudged, it is true, by the rubbing of my stiff hair and of her cap.

Then Monsieur Leblanc broke in, speaking in French, of which, as it chanced I understood the sense, for my father had grounded me in that tongue, and I am naturally quick at modern languages.  At any rate, I made out that he was asking if I was the little “cochon d’anglais,” or English pig, whom for his sins he had to teach.  He added that he judged I must be, as my hair stuck up on my head—­I had taken off my hat out of politeness—­as it naturally would do on a pig’s back.

This was too much for me, so, before either of the others could speak, I answered in Dutch, for rage made me eloquent and bold: 

“Yes, I am he; but, mynheer, if you are to be my master, I hope you will not call the English pigs any more to me.”

“Indeed, gamin” (that is, little scamp), “and pray, what will happen if I am so bold as to repeat that truth?”

“I think, mynheer,” I replied, growing white with rage at this new insult, “the same that has happened to yonder buck,” and I pointed to the klipspringer behind Hans’s saddle.  “I mean that I shall shoot you.”