“There is no question,” I said, “since, rich or poor, not for a thousand pounds would I shoot again against one who plays such tricks. Keep your money, Mynheer Pereira, and I will keep my mare. The umpire has said that the match is dead, so everything is finished.” “Not quite,” interrupted Retief, “for I have a word to say. Friend Allan, you have played fair, and I believe that there is no one who can shoot like you in Africa.” “That is so,” said the audience of Boers. “Mynheer Pereira,” went on Retief, “although you, too, are a fine shot, as is well known, I believe that had you played fair also you would have been beaten, but as it is you have saved your hundred pounds. Mynheer Pereira,” he added in a great voice, “you are a cheat, who have brought disgrace upon us Boers, and for my part I never want to shake your hand again.” Now, at these outspoken words, for when his indignation was aroused Retief was no measurer of language, Pereira’s high-coloured face went white as a sheet. “_Mein Gott_, mynheer,” he said, “I am minded to make you answer for such talk,” and his hand went to the knife at his girdle. “What!” shouted Retief, “do you want another shooting match? Well, if so I am ready with whole bullets or with split ones. None shall say that Pieter Retief was afraid of any man, and, least of all, of one who is not ashamed to try to steal a prize as a hyena steals a bone from a lion. Come on, Hernan Pereira, come on!” Now, I am sure I cannot say what would have happened, although I am quite certain that Pereira had no stomach for a duel with the redoubtable Retief, a man whose courage was as proverbial throughout the land as was his perfect uprightness of character. At any rate, seeing that things looked very black, Henri Marais, who had been listening to this altercation with evident annoyance, stepped forward and said: “Mynheer Retief and nephew Hernan, you are both my guests, and I will not permit quarrelling over this foolishness, especially as I am sure that Hernan never intended to cheat, but only to do what he thought was allowed. Why should he, who is one of the finest shots in the Colony, though it may be that young Allan Quatermain here is even better? Will you not say so, too, friend Retief, especially just now when it is necessary that we should all be as brothers?” he added pleadingly. “No,” thundered Retief, “I will not tell a lie to please you or anyone.” Then, seeing that the commandant was utterly uncompromising, Marais went up to his nephew and whispered to him for a while. What he said I do not know. The result of it was, however, that after favouring both Retief and myself with an angry scowl, Pereira turned and walked to where his horse stood, mounted it, and rode off, followed by two Hottentot after-riders. That was the last I saw of Hernan Pereira for a long while to come, and heartily do I wish that it had been the last I ever saw of him. But this was not to be. CHAPTER VI. THE PARTING