Also there is another reason.  The girl, Suzanne Kenzie, my great-granddaughter, who writes this, alone is left of my blood, since her father and grandfather, who was our adopted son, and the husband of our only child, fell in the Zulu war fighting with the English against Cetywayo.  Now many have heard the strange story of Ralph Kenzie, the English castaway, and of how he was found by our daughter Suzanne.  Many have heard also the still stranger story of how this child of ours, Suzanne, in her need, was sheltered by savages, and for more than two years lived with Sihamba, the little witch doctoress and ruler of the Tribe of the Mountains, till Ralph, her husband, who loved her, sought her out and rescued her, that by the mercy of the Lord during all this time had suffered neither harm nor violence.  Yes, many have heard of these things, for in bygone years there was much talk of them as of events out of nature and marvellous, but few have heard them right.  Therefore before I go, I, who remember and know them all, would set them down that they may be a record for ever among my descendants and the descendants of Ralph Kenzie, my foster-son, who, having been brought up amongst us Boers, was the best and bravest Englishman that ever lived in Africa.

And now I will tell of the finding of Ralph Kenzie many years ago.

To begin at the beginning, my husband, Jan Botmar, is one of the well-known Boer family of that name, the most of whom lived in the Graafreinet district in the Old Colony till some of them trekked into the Transkei, when I was still a young girl, to be as far as they could from the heart of the British power.  Nor did they trek for a little reason.  Listen and judge.

One of the Bezuidenhouts, Frederick, was accused of treating some black slave of his cruelly, and a body of the accursed Pandours, the Hottentots whom the English had made into a regiment, were sent to arrest him.  He would not suffer that these black creatures should lay hands upon a Boer, so he fled to a cave and fought there till he was shot dead.  Over his open grave his brethren and friends swore to take vengeance for his murder, and fifty of them raised an insurrection.  They were pursued by the Pandours and by burghers more law abiding or more cautious, till Jan Bezuidenhout, the brother of Frederick, was shot also, fighting to the last while his wife and little son loaded the rifles.  Then the rest were captured and put upon their trial, and to the rage and horror of all their countrymen the brutal British governor of that day, who was named Somerset, ordered five of them to be hanged, among them my husband’s father and uncle.  Petitions for mercy availed nothing, and these five were tied to a beam like Kaffir dogs yonder at Slagter’s Nek, they who had shed the blood of no man.  Yes, yes, it is true, for Jan, my man, saw it; he saw his father and his uncle hanged like dogs.  When they pushed them from the beam four of the ropes broke—­perhaps they had been tampered with, I know not—­but still the devils who murdered them would show no mercy.  Jan ran to his father and cast his arms about him, but they tore him away.