MARIE

CONTENTS

I. ALLAN LEARNS FRENCH
II. THE ATTACK ON MARAISFONTEIN
III. THE RESCUE
IV. HERNANDO PEREIRA
V. THE SHOOTING MATCH
VI. THE PARTING
VII. ALLAN'S CALL
VIII. THE CAMP OF DEATH
IX. THE PROMISE
X. VROUW PRINSLOO SPEAKS HER MIND
XI. THE SHOT IN THE KLOOF
XII. DINGAAN'S BET
XIII. THE REHEARSAL
XIV. THE PLAY
XV. RETIEF ASKS A FAVOUR
XVI. THE COUNCIL
XVII. THE MARRIAGE
XVIII. THE TREATY
XIX. DEPART IN PEACE
XX. THE COURT-MARTIAL
XXI. THE INNOCENT BLOOD

CHAPTER I. ALLAN LEARNS FRENCH

Although in my old age I, Allan Quatermain, have taken to writing--after
a fashion--never yet have I set down a single word of the tale of my
first love and of the adventures that are grouped around her beautiful
and tragic history. I suppose this is because it has always seemed to
me too holy and far-off a matter--as holy and far-off as is that heaven
which holds the splendid spirit of Marie Marais. But now, in my age,
that which was far-off draws near again; and at night, in the depths
between the stars, sometimes I seem to see the opening doors through
which I must pass, and leaning earthwards across their threshold, with
outstretched arms and dark and dewy eyes, a shadow long forgotten by all
save me--the shadow of Marie Marais.

An old man's dream, doubtless, no more. Still, I will try to set down
that history which ended in so great a sacrifice, and one so worthy of
record, though I hope that no human eye will read it until I also am
forgotten, or, at any rate, have grown dim in the gathering mists of
oblivion. And I am glad that I have waited to make this attempt, for it
seems to me that only of late have I come to understand and appreciate
at its true value the character of her of whom I tell, and the
passionate affection which was her bounteous offering to one so utterly
unworthy as myself. What have I done, I wonder, that to me should have
been decreed the love of two such women as Marie and that of Stella,
also now long dead, to whom alone in the world I told all her tale?
I remember I feared lest she should take it ill, but this was not so.
Indeed, during our brief married days, she thought and talked much of
Marie, and some of her last words to me were that she was going to seek
her, and that they would wait for me together in the land of love, pure
and immortal.

So with Stella's death all that side of life came to an end for me,
since during the long years which stretch between then and now I have
never said another tender word to woman. I admit, however, that once,
long afterwards, a certain little witch of a Zulu did say tender words
to me, and for an hour or so almost turned my head, an art in which she
had great skill. This I say because I wish to be quite honest, although
it--I mean my head, for there was no heart involved in the matter--came
straight again at once. Her name was Mameena, and I have set down her
remarkable story elsewhere.

To return. As I have already written in another book, I passed my youth
with my old father, a Church of England clergyman, in what is now the
Cradock district of the Cape Colony.

Then it was a wild place enough, with a very small white population.
Among our few neighbours was a Boer farmer of the name of Henri Marais,
who lived about fifteen miles from our station, on a fine farm called
Maraisfontein. I say he was a Boer, but, as may be guessed from both his
Christian and surname, his origin was Huguenot, his forefather, who
was also named Henri Marais--though I think the Marais was spelt
rather differently then--having been one of the first of that faith who
emigrated to South Africa to escape the cruelties of Louis XIV. at the
time of the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.

Unlike most Boers of similar descent, these particular Marais--for,
of course, there are many other families so called--never forgot their
origin. Indeed, from father to son, they kept up some knowledge of the
French tongue, and among themselves often spoke it after a fashion.
At any rate, it was the habit of Henri Marais, who was excessively
religious, to read his chapter of the Bible (which it is, or was, the
custom of the Boers to spell out every morning, should their learning
allow them to do so), not in the "taal" or patois Dutch, but in good
old French.

MARIE