“All right, aunt, only be brief, for I have no time to spare.”
She obeyed, but I cannot say that she was brief.
When at last the old lady paused, breathless, Retief said:
“I understand everything; there is no need for you young people to talk. Now we will go and see Henri Marais, and, if he is not madder than usual, make him listen to reason.”
So we walked to where Marais’s wagon stood at the end of the line, and found him sitting on the _disselboom_ cutting up tobacco with his pocket-knife.
“Good-day, Allan,” he said, for we had not met since my return. “Have you had a nice journey?”
I was about to answer when the commandant broke in impatiently:
“See here, see here, Henri, we have not come to talk about Allan’s journey, but about his marriage, which is more important. He rides with me to Zululand on Monday, as you do, and wants to wed your daughter to-morrow, which is Sunday, a good day for the deed.”
“It is a day to pray, not to give and be given in marriage,” commented Marais sulkily. “Moreover, Marie does not come of age before Monday, and until then the oath that I made to God holds.”
“My _vatdoek_ for your oath!” exclaimed the vrouw, flapping that awful rag in his face. “How much do you suppose that God cares what you in your folly swore to that stinkcat of a nephew of yours? Do you be careful, Henri Marais, that God does not make of your precious oath a stone to fall upon your head and break it like a peanut-shell.”
“Hold your chattering tongue, old woman,” said Marais furiously. “Am I to be taught my duty to my conscience and my daughter by you?”
“Certainly you are, if you cannot teach them to yourself,” began the vrouw, setting her hands upon her hips.
“No quarrelling here. Now, Henri Marais, your conduct about these two young people who love each other is a scandal. Will you let them be married to-morrow or not?”
“No, commandant, I will not. By the law I have power over my daughter till she is of age, and I refuse to allow her to marry a cursed Englishman. Moreover, the prédicant Celliers is away, so there is none to marry them.”
“You speak strange words, Mynheer Marais,” said Retief quietly, “especially when I remember all that this ‘cursed Englishman’ has done for you and yours, for I have heard every bit of that story, though not from him. Now hearken. You have appealed to the law, and, as commandant, I must allow your appeal. But after twelve o’clock to-morrow night, according to your own showing, the law ceases to bind your daughter. Therefore, on Monday morning, if there is no clergyman in the camp and these two wish it, I, as commandant, will marry them before all men, as I have the power to do.”