Next my father spoke, saying: "Praise be to God, he lives! Allan, my son, I am proud of you; you have done your duty as an Englishman should." "Had to save my own skin if I could, thank you, father," I muttered.
"Why as an Englishman more than any other sort of man, Mynheer predicant ?" asked the tall stranger, speaking in Dutch, although he evidently understood our language.
"The point is one that I will not argue now, sir," answered my father, drawing himself up.

"But if what I hear is true, there was a Frenchman in that house who did not do his duty; and if you belong to the same nation, I apologise to you." "Thank you, sir; as it happens, I do, half.

The rest of me is Portuguese, not English, thank God." "God is thanked for many things that must surprise Him," replied my father in a suave voice.
At that moment this rather disagreeable conversation, which even then both angered and amused me faintly, came to an end, for the Heer Marais entered the place.
As might have been expected in so excitable a man, he was in a terrible state of agitation.

Thankfulness at the escape of his only, beloved child, rage with the Kaffirs who had tried to kill her, and extreme distress at the loss of most of his property--all these conflicting emotions boiled together in his breast like antagonistic elements in a crucible.
The resulting fumes were parti-coloured and overpowering.

He rushed up to me, blessed and thanked me (for he had learnt something of the story of the defence), called me a young hero and so forth, hoping that God would reward me.