n in this wilderness?"

"She might not think it mud," I replied. "Men and women have been
married without the help of priests before now, by open declaration
and public report, for instance, and their children held to be born in
wedlock. I know that, for I have read of the law of marriage."

"It may be, Allan, though I hold no marriage good unless the holy words
are said. But why do you not let me come to the end of my story?"

"Because I thought it was ended, Mynheer Marais."

"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 bod