Tugela explained the mystery in a few words, and to this effect-- "The wife Metilulu has chosen for you," he said, "is the daughter of a head man, who died some time ago, leaving this only child. As there were no relations to take charge of her, Metilulu adopted Zenuta himself. When she grew old enough he proposed several suitors to her, but she refused all. Now, however, she has fallen in love with you, and has asked the chief to let you be her husband." "I feel deeply flattered by the lady's preference," I said, "but, as I have previously said, Tugela, having a wife already, by the laws of my religion I should commit a great crime by taking another, therefore must decline her advances. But this does not explain your chief's silence." "That arises because Metilulu does not care about her marriage with a white man, and also that he has had trouble of his own since. No doubt he has forgotten the affair, but he will not for long." "Why not?" "Because Zenuta is impetuous. She will remind him." "What will he do then?" "Why, if he accepts your refusal, she will be enraged. He might offer you her only to attend upon you--not as a wife in that case." "If so, what would you advise me to do?" I asked. "Take her," he rejoined; "it may preserve you from Metilulu's anger, for Zenuta makes a dreadful turmoil among the wives, and worries him." The latter news made me have but a poor opinion of the lady's temper; yet I thought if I were compelled to accept her as my drudge--for the Kaffir's wife is little more,--I might at least make the girl's life happier by making her duties light. To change the subject, I then told Tugela that, as my European garments were no longer worthy the name, I should much like to procure some skins of any kind to make myself others. He said he would see to it, and the next day got permission to take me out hunting, when I was fortunate enough to kill an eland, out of the skin of which I managed, after a fashion, only having an assagai-head for a knife and fibre for thread, to construct a garment something similar to that often seen in pictures upon ancient Britons--that is, a narrow skirt reaching from the waist to the knee, while a broad strip of the same material came over the right shoulder, and fastened again to the skirt behind. Had any one in my native village seen me in that strange costume, with arms and legs burnt to a dark brown, as was my face and neck, and my black hair grown till it fell over my shoulders, while my beard and moustache, all in one, formed a flowing appendage over my breast, they would never have recognised Richard Galbraith, the once neat, trim, clean-shaven, but for the framework of short whisker and beard, English sailor. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. A TALK ABOUT MARRIAGE--ZENUTA, MY SERVANT--KAFFIRS AND FISH.