Now I suppose that he saw on my face the joy which I could not conceal, for he added hastily:  “Yet, Allan, years ago I swore on the Book before God that never with my will should my daughter marry an Englishman, even if he were a good Englishman.  Also, just before we left the Colony, I swore again, in her presence and that of Hernan Pereira, that I would not give her to you, so I cannot break my oath, can I?  If I did, the good God would be avenged upon me.”

“Some might think that when I came here the good God was in the way of being avenged upon you for the keeping of that evil oath,” I answered bitterly, glancing, in my turn, at the graves.

“Yes, they might, Allan,” he replied without anger, for all his troubles had induced a reasonable frame of mind in him—­for a while.  “Yet, His ways are past finding out, are they not?”

Now my anger broke out, and, rising, I said: 

“Do you mean, Mynheer Marais, that notwithstanding the love between us, which you know is true and deep, and notwithstanding that I alone have been able to drag both of you and the others out of the claws of death, I am never to marry Marie?  Do you mean that she is to be given to a braggart who deserted her in her need?”

“And what if I do mean that, Allan?”

“This:  although I am still young, as you know well I am a man who can think and act for himself.  Also, I am your master here—­I have cattle and guns and servants.  Well, I will take Marie, and if any should try to stop me, I know how to protect myself and her.”

This bold speech did not seem to surprise him in the least or to make him think the worse of me.  He looked at me for a while, pulling his long beard in a meditative fashion, then answered: 

“I dare say that at your age I should have played the same game, and it is true that you have things in your fist.  But, much as she may love you, Marie would not go away with you and leave her father to starve.”

“Then you can come with us as my father-in-law, Mynheer Marais.  At any rate, it is certain that I will not go away and leave her here to starve.”

Now I think that something which he saw in my eye showed him that I was in earnest.  At least, he changed his tone and began to argue, almost to plead.

“Be reasonable, Allan,” he said.  “How can you marry Marie when there is no predicant to marry you?  Surely, if you love her so much, you would not pour mud upon her name, even in this wilderness?”

“She might not think it mud,” I replied.  “Men and women have been married without the help of priests before now, by open declaration and public report, for instance, and their children held to be born in wedlock.  I know that, for I have read of the law of marriage.”

“It may be, Allan, though I hold no marriage good unless the holy words are said.  But why do you not let me come to the end of my story?”