It was dark in the hut, for which I was really thankful, for the darkness seemed to soothe my nerves.

Especially was this so when Brother John said: "Friend, Allan Quatermain, and you, young gentleman, whose name I don't know, I will tell you what I think I never mentioned to you before, that, in addition to being a doctor, I am a clergyman of the American Episcopalian Church.

Well, as a clergyman, I will ask your leave to return thanks for your very remarkable deliverance from a cruel death." "By all means," I muttered for both of us, and he did so in a most earnest and beautiful prayer.

Brother John may or may not have been a little touched in the head at this time of his life, but he was certainly an able and a good man.
Afterwards, as the shrieks and shouting had now died down to a confused murmur of many voices, we went and sat outside under the projecting eaves of the hut, where I introduced Stephen Somers to Brother John.
"And now," I said, "in the name of goodness, where do you come from tied up in flowers like a Roman priest at sacrifice, and riding on a bull like the lady called Europa?
And what on earth do you mean by playing us such a scurvy trick down there in Durban, leaving us without a word after you had agreed to guide us to this hellish hole ?" Brother John stroked his long beard and looked at me reproachfully.
"I guess, Allan," he said in his American fashion, "there is a mistake somewhere.

To answer the last part of your question first, I did not leave you without a word; I gave a letter to that lame old Griqua gardener of yours, Jack, to be handed to you when you arrived." "Then the idiot either lost it and lied to me, as Griquas will, or he forgot all about it." "That is likely.