“See here, see here, Henri, we have not come to talk about Allan’s journey, but about his marriage, which is more important. He rides with me to Zululand on Monday, as you do, and wants to wed your daughter to-morrow, which is Sunday, a good day for the deed.” “It is a day to pray, not to give and be given in marriage,” commented Marais sulkily. “Moreover, Marie does not come of age before Monday, and until then the oath that I made to God holds.” “My _vatdoek_ for your oath!” exclaimed the vrouw, flapping that awful rag in his face. “How much do you suppose that God cares what you in your folly swore to that stinkcat of a nephew of yours? Do you be careful, Henri Marais, that God does not make of your precious oath a stone to fall upon your head and break it like a peanut-shell.” “Hold your chattering tongue, old woman,” said Marais furiously. “Am I to be taught my duty to my conscience and my daughter by you?” “Certainly you are, if you cannot teach them to yourself,” began the vrouw, setting her hands upon her hips. But Retief pushed her aside, saying: “No quarrelling here. Now, Henri Marais, your conduct about these two young people who love each other is a scandal. Will you let them be married to-morrow or not?” “No, commandant, I will not. By the law I have power over my daughter till she is of age, and I refuse to allow her to marry a cursed Englishman. Moreover, the prédicant Celliers is away, so there is none to marry them.” “You speak strange words, Mynheer Marais,” said Retief quietly, “especially when I remember all that this ‘cursed Englishman’ has done for you and yours, for I have heard every bit of that story, though not from him. Now hearken. You have appealed to the law, and, as commandant, I must allow your appeal. But after twelve o’clock to-morrow night, according to your own showing, the law ceases to bind your daughter. Therefore, on Monday morning, if there is no clergyman in the camp and these two wish it, I, as commandant, will marry them before all men, as I have the power to do.” Then Marais broke into one of those raving fits of temper which were constitutional in him, and to my mind showed that he was never quite sane. Oddly enough, it was on poor Marie that he concentrated his wrath. He cursed her horribly because she had withstood his will and refused to marry Hernan Pereira. He prayed that evil might fall on her; that she might never bear a child, and that if she did, it might die, and other things too unpleasant to mention. We stared at him astonished, though I think that had he been any other man than the father of my betrothed, I should have struck him. Retief, I noticed, lifted his hand to do so, then let it fall again, muttering: “Let be; he is possessed with a devil.”