“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.” “_Peste! Au moins il a du courage, cet enfant_” (At least the child is plucky), exclaimed Monsieur Leblanc, astonished. From that moment, I may add, he respected me, and never again insulted my country to my face. Then Marais broke out, speaking in Dutch that I might understand: “It is you who should be called pig, Leblanc, not this boy, for, early as it is, you have been drinking. Look! the brandy bottle is half empty. Is that the example you set to the young? Speak so again and I turn you out to starve on the veld. Allan Quatermain, although, as you may have heard, I do not like the English, I beg your pardon. I hope you will forgive the words this sot spoke, thinking that you did not understand,” and he took off his hat and bowed to me quite in a grand manner, as his ancestors might have done to a king of France. Leblanc’s face fell. Then he rose and walked away rather unsteadily; as I learned afterwards, to plunge his head in a tub of cold water and swallow a pint of new milk, which were his favourite antidotes after too much strong drink. At any rate, when he appeared again, half an hour later, to begin our lesson, he was quite sober, and extremely polite.