Before me were the rough houses built of the branches of trees, daubed over with mud, or rather the backs of them, for they faced west.  I stood still for a moment, and as I stood thought that I heard a faint sound as of someone reciting slowly.  I crept along the end of the outermost house and, rubbing the cold sweat from my eyes, peeped round the corner, for it occurred to me that savages might be in possession.  Then I saw what caused the sound.  A tattered, blackened, bearded man stood at the head of a long and shallow hole saying a prayer.

It was Henri Marais, although at the time I did not recognise him, so changed was he.  A number of little mounds to the right and left of him told me, however, that the hole was a grave.  As I watched two more men appeared, dragging between them the body of a woman, which evidently they had not strength to carry, as its legs trailed upon the ground.  From the shape of the corpse it seemed to be that of a tall young woman, but the features I could not see, because it was being dragged face downwards.  Also the long hair hanging from the head hid them.  It was dark hair, like Marie’s.  They reached the grave, and tumbled their sad burden into it; but I—­I could not stir!

At length my limbs obeyed my will.  I went forward to the men and said in a hollow voice in Dutch: 

“Whom do you bury?”

“Johanna Meyer,” answered someone mechanically, for they did not seem to have taken the trouble to look at me.  As I listened to those words my heart, which had stood still waiting for the answer, beat again with a sudden bound that I could hear in the silence.

I looked up.  There, advancing from the doorway of one of the houses, very slowly, as though overpowered by weakness, and leading by the hand a mere skeleton of a child, who was chewing some leaves, I saw—­I saw Marie Marais! She was wasted to nothing, but I could not mistake her eyes, those great soft eyes that had grown so unnaturally large in the white, thin face.

She too saw me and stared for one moment.  Then, loosing the child, she cast up her hands, through which the sunlight shone as through parchment, and slowly sank to the ground.

“She has gone, too,” said one of the men in an indifferent voice.  “I thought she would not last another day.”

Now for the first time the man at the head of the grave turned.  Lifting his hand, he pointed to me, whereon the other two men turned also.

“God above us!” he said in a choked voice, “at last I am quite mad.  Look! there stands the spook of young Allan, the son of the English predicant who lived near Cradock.”

As soon as I heard the voice I knew the speaker.

“Oh, Mynheer Marais!” I cried, “I am no ghost, I am Allan himself come to save you.”

Marais made no answer; he seemed bewildered.  But one of the men cried out crazily: 

“How can you save us, youngster, unless you are ready to be eaten?  Don’t you see, we starve, we starve!”