“He’s slim, this little Englishman,” shouted one.
“Don’t be angry with him. We should have done as much ourselves,” replied another.
“Leave him behind,” said a third. “Even the Zulus do not send a new-married man on service.” Then they smacked me on the back, and hustled me in their rude, kindly manner, till at length I fell into a rage and hit one of them on the nose, at which he only laughed the louder, although I made it bleed.
“See here, friends,” I said, as soon as silence was restored; “married or no, whoever does not ride to Dingaan, I ride to him, although it is against my judgment. Let those laugh loudest who laugh last.”
“Good!” cried one; “if you set the pace we shall soon be home again, Allan Quatermain. Who would not with Marie Marais at the end of the journey?”
Then, followed by their rough and mocking laughter, I broke away from them, and took refuge in my wagon, little guessing that all this talk would be brought up against me on a day to come.
In a certain class of uneducated mind foresight is often interpreted as guilty knowledge.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE MARRIAGE
I was awakened on my wedding morning by the crash and bellowing of a great thunderstorm. The lightning flashed fearfully all about us, killing two oxen quite near to my wagon, and the thunder rolled and echoed till the very earth seemed to shake. Then came a wail of cold wind, and after that the swish of torrential rain. Although I was well accustomed to such natural manifestations, especially at this season of the year, I confess that these sights and sounds did not tend to raise my spirits, which were already lower than they should have been on that eventful day. Hans, however, who arrived to help me put on my best clothes for the ceremony, was for once consoling.
“Don’t look sick, baas,” he said, “for if there is storm in the morning, there is shine at night.”