This was for the benefit of my father, who made it a point of honour not to understand Dutch, although he would answer Marais in that language when _he_ pretended not to understand English.

To me he spoke in Dutch, and occasionally in French to Marie.

It was a most curious and polyglot conversation.
"Young Allan," he said, "and you, daughter Marie, I have heard stories concerning you that, although I never gave you leave to 'opsit'" (that is, to sit up alone at night with candles, according to the Boer fashion between those who are courting), "you have been making love to each other." "That is true, mynheer," I said.

"I only waited an opportunity to tell you that we plighted our troth during the attack of the Quabies on this house." "Allemachte! Allan, a strange time to choose," answered Marais, pulling at his beard; "the troth that is plighted in blood is apt to end in blood." "A vain superstition to which I cannot consent," interrupted my father.
"Perhaps so," I answered.

"I know not; God alone knows.