“Allemachte! Allan, a strange time to choose,” answered Marais, pulling at his beard; “the troth that is plighted in blood is apt to end in blood.” “A vain superstition to which I cannot consent,” interrupted my father. “Perhaps so,” I answered. “I know not; God alone knows. I only know that we plighted our troth when we thought ourselves about to die, and that we shall keep that troth till death ends it.” “Yes, my father,” added Marie, leaning forward across the scored yellow-wood table, her chin resting on her hand and her dark, buck-like eyes looking him in the face. “Yes, my father, that is so, as I have told you already.” “And I tell you, Marie, what I have told you already, and you too, Allan, that this thing may not be,” answered Marais, hitting the table with his fist. “I have nothing to say against you, Allan; indeed, I honour you, and you have done me a mighty service, but it may not be.” “Why not, mynheer?” I asked. “For three reasons, Allan, each of which is final. You are English, and I do not wish my daughter to marry an Englishman; that is the first. You are poor, which is no discredit to you, and since I am now ruined my daughter cannot marry a poor man; that is the second. You live here, and my daughter and I are leaving this country, therefore you cannot marry her; that is the third,” and he paused. “Is there not a fourth,” I asked, “which is the real reason? Namely, that you wish your daughter to marry someone else.” “Yes, Allan; since you force me to it, there is a fourth. I have affianced my daughter to her cousin, Hernando Pereira, a man of substance and full age; no lad, but one who knows his own mind and can support a wife.” “I understand,” I answered calmly, although within my heart a very hell was raging. “But tell me, mynheer, has Marie affianced herself—or perhaps she will answer with her own lips?” “Yes, Allan,” replied Marie in her quiet fashion, “I have affianced myself—to you and no other man.” “You hear, mynheer,” I said to Marais. Then he broke out in his usual excitable manner. He stormed, he argued, he rated us both. He said that he would never allow it; that first he would see his daughter in her grave. That I had abused his confidence and violated his hospitality; that he would shoot me if I came near his girl. That she was a minor, and according to the law he could dispose of her in marriage. That she must accompany him whither he was going; that certainly I should not do so, and much more of the same sort. When at last he had tired himself out and smashed his favourite pipe upon the table, Marie spoke, saying: “My father, you know that I love you dearly, for since my mother’s death we have been everything to each other, have we not?” “Surely, Marie, you are my life, and more than my life.”