"Ah, I have always longed to see an English gentleman.

I have never seen but one Englishman since we lived here, and he certainly was not a gentleman--no white people at all, indeed, except a few wandering Boers.

We live among black people and baboons--only I have read about English people--lots of books--poetry and novels.

But tell me what is your name?
Macumazahn the black man called you, but you must have a white name, too." "My name is Allan Quatermain," I said.
Her face turned quite white, her rosy lips parted, and she looked at me wildly with her beautiful dark eyes.
"It is wonderful," she said, "but I have often heard that name.

My father has told me how a little boy called Allan Quatermain once saved my life by putting out my dress when it was on fire--see!"-- and she pointed to a faint red mark upon her neck--"here is the scar of the burn." "I remember it," I said.