He swore at Marie, and told her to go to bed, and she obeyed, still weeping.

Then my father rose and said: "Henri Marais, we cannot leave here to-night because the horses are kraaled, and it would be difficult to find them in this darkness, so we must ask your hospitality till dawn." "_I_ do not ask it," I exclaimed.

"I go to sleep in the cart," and I limped from the room and the house, leaving the two men together.
What passed afterwards between them I do not quite know.

I gathered that my father, who, when roused, also had a temper and was mentally and intellectually the stronger man, told Marais his opinion of his wickedness and folly in language that he was not likely to forget.
I believe he even drove him to confess that his acts seemed cruel, excusing them, however, by announcing that he had sworn before God that his daughter should never marry an Englishman.

Also he said that he had promised her solemnly to Pereira, his own nephew, whom he loved, and could not break his word.
"No," answered my father, "because, being mad with the madness that runs before destruction, you prefer to break Marie's heart and perhaps become guilty of her blood." Then he left him.
The darkness was intense.