struck afterwards, but of that business I cannot bear to write. I wonder how it will all work out after I am dead and if I shall ever learn what happens in the end. 

 Now I have only mentioned this business of the Annexation and the part you played in it, because it was on that occasion that I became acquainted with Anscombe. For you have nothing to do with this story which is about the destruction of the Zulus, the accomplishment of the vengeance of Zikali the wizard at the kraal named Finished, and incidentally, the love affairs of two people in which that old wizard took a hand, as I did to my sorrow. 

 It happened that Mr. Anscombe had ridden on ahead of his wagons which could not arrive at Pretoria for a day or two, and as he found it impossible to get accommodation at the European or elsewhere, I offered to let him sleep in mine, or rather alongside in a tent I had. He accepted and soon we became very good friends. Before the day was out I discovered that he had served in a crack cavalry regiment, but resigned his commission some years before. I asked him why. 

 “Well,” he said, “I came into a good lot of money on my mother’s death and could not see a prospect of any active service. While the regiment was abroad I liked the life well enough, but at home it bored me. Too much society for my taste, and that sort of thing. Also I wanted to travel; nothing else really amuses me.” 

 “You will soon get tired of it,” I answered, “and as you are well off, marry some fine lady and settle down at home.” 

 “Don’t think so. I doubt if I should ever be happily married, I want too much. One doesn’t pick up an earthly angel with a cast-iron constitution who adores you, which are the bare necessities of marriage, under every bush.” Here I laughed. “Also,” he added, the laughter going out of his eyes, “I have had enough of fine ladies and their ways.” 

 “Marriage is better than scrapes,” I remarked sententiously. 

 “Quite so, but one might get them both together. No, I shall never marry, although I suppose I ought as my brothers have no children.” 

 “Won’t you, my friend,” thought I to myself, “when the skin grows again on your burnt fingers.” 

 For I was sure they had been burnt, perhaps more than once. How, I never learned, for which I am rather sorry for it interests me to study burnt fingers, if they do not happen to be my own. Then we 

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