ALLAN'S CALL





A fortnight later Marais, Pereira and their companions, a little band in
all of about twenty men, thirty women and children, and say fifty
half-breeds and Hottentot after-riders, trekked from their homes into
the wilderness. I rode to the crest of a table-topped hill and watched
the long line of wagons, one of them containing Marie, crawl away
northward across the veld a mile or more beneath.

Sorely was I tempted to gallop after them and seek a last interview with
her and her father. But my pride forbade me. Henri Marais had given
out that if I came near his daughter he would have me beaten back with
"sjambocks" or hide whips. Perhaps he had gained some inkling of our
last farewell in the peach orchard. I do not know. But I do know that
if anyone had lifted a sjambock on me I should have answered with a
bullet. Then there would have been blood between us, which is worse to
cross than whole rivers of wrath and jealousy. So I just watched the
wagons until they vanished, and galloped home down the rock-strewn
slope, wishing that the horse would stumble and break my neck.

When I reached the station, however, I was glad that it had not done so,
as I found my father sitting on the stoep reading a letter that had been
brought by a mounted Hottentot.

It was from Henri Marais, and ran thus:--