“Well,” went on my father, “although I am fond of Marie, and know her to be a sweet and noble-hearted girl, neither do I wish that she should marry my son. I would see him wed to some English woman, and not dragged into the net of the Boers and their plottings. Still, it is plain that these two love each other with heart and soul, as doubtless it has been decreed that they should love. This being so, I tell you that to separate them and force another marriage upon one of them is a crime before God, of which, I am sure, He will take note and pay it back to you. Strange things may happen in those lands whither you go, Henri Marais. Will you not, then, be content to leave your child in safe keeping?” “Never!” shouted Marais. “She shall accompany me to a new home, which is not under the shadow of your accursed British flag.” “Then I have no more to say. On your head be it here and hereafter,” replied my father solemnly. Now unable to control myself any longer I broke in: “But I have, mynheer. To separate Marie and myself is a sin, and one that will break her heart. As for my poverty, I have something, more perhaps than you think, and in this rich country wealth can be earned by those who work, as I would do for her sake. The man to whom you would give her showed his true nature this day, for he who can play so low a trick to win a wager, will play worse tricks to win greater things. Moreover, the scheme must fail since Marie will not marry him.” “I say she shall,” replied Marais; “and that whether she does or not, she shall accompany me and not stay here to be the wife of an English boy.” “Accompany you I will, father, and share your fortunes to the last. But marry Hernando Pereira I will not,” said Marie quietly. “Perhaps, mynheer,” I added, “days may come when once again you will be glad of the help of an ‘English boy.’” The words were spoken at random, a kind of ejaculation from the heart, caused by the sting of Marais’s cruelty and insults, like the cry of a beast beneath a blow. Little did I know how true they would prove, but at times it is thus that truth is mysteriously drawn from some well of secret knowledge hidden in our souls. “When I want your help I will ask for it,” raved Marais, who, knowing himself to be in the wrong, strove to cover up that wrong with violence. “Asked or unasked, if I live it shall be given in the future as in the past, Mynheer Marais. God pardon you for the woe you are bringing on Marie and on me.” Now Marie began to weep a little, and, unable to bear that sight, I covered my eyes with my hand. Marais, who, when he was not under the influence of his prejudices or passion, had a kind heart, was moved also, but tried to hide his feelings in roughness. He swore at Marie, and told her to go to bed, and she obeyed, still weeping. Then my father rose and said: