“Not so, Allan. I told you that I had sworn that she should never marry you with my will. But when she is of age, which will be in some six months’ time, my will counts no longer, seeing that then she is a free woman who can dispose of herself. Also I shall be clear of my oath, for no harm will come to my soul if that happens which I cannot help. Now are you satisfied?” “I don’t know,” I answered doubtfully, for somehow all Marais’s casuistry, which I thought contemptible, did not convince me that he was sincere. “I don’t know,” I repeated. “Much may chance in six months.” “Of course, Allan. For instance, Marie might change her mind and marry someone else.” “Or I might not be there to marry, mynheer. Accidents sometimes happen to men who are not wanted, especially in wild countries or, for the matter of that, to those who are.” “Allemachte! Allan, you do not mean that I—” “No, mynheer,” I interrupted; “but there are other people in the world besides yourself—Hernan Pereira, for example, if he lives. Still, I am not the only one concerned in this matter. There is Marie yonder. Shall I call her?” He nodded, preferring probably that I should speak to her in his presence rather than alone. So I called Marie, who was watching our talk somewhat anxiously while she went about her tasks. She came at once, a very different Marie to the starving girl of a while before, for although she was still thin and drawn, her youth and beauty were returning to her fast under the influences of good food and happiness. “What is it, Allan?” she asked gently. I told her all, repeating our conversation and the arguments which had been used on either side word for word, as nearly as I could remember them. “Is that right?” I asked of Marais when I had finished. “It is right; you have a good memory,” he answered. “Very well. And now what have you to say, Marie?” “I, dear Allan? Why, this: My life belongs to you, who have twice saved this body of mine from death, as my love and spirit belong to you. Therefore, I should have thought it no shame if I had been given to you here and now before the people, and afterwards married by a clergyman when we found one. But my father has sworn an oath which weighs upon his mind, and he has shown you that within six months—a short six months—that oath dies of itself, since, by the law, he can no longer control me. So, Allan, as I would not grieve him, or perhaps lead him to say and do what is foolish, I think it would be well that we should wait for those six months, if, on his part, he promises that he will then do nothing to prevent our marriage.” “_Ja, ja_, I promise that then I will do nothing to prevent your marriage,” answered Marais eagerly, like one who has suddenly seen some loophole of escape from an impossible position, adding, as though to himself, “But God may do something to prevent it, for all that.”