Allan's Wife. Генри Райдер Хаггард

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       DEDICATION

       My Dear Macumazahn,

       It was your native name which I borrowed at the christening

       of that Allen who has become as well known to me as any

       other friend I have. It is therefore fitting that I should

       dedicate to you this, his last tale—the story of his wife,

       and the history of some further adventures which befell him.

       They will remind you of many an African yarn—that with the

       baboons may recall an experience of your own which I did not

       share. And perhaps they will do more than this. Perhaps they

       will bring back to you some of the long past romance of days

       that are lost to us. The country of which Allan Quatermain

       tells his tale is now, for the most part, as well known and

       explored as are the fields of Norfolk. Where we shot and

       trekked and galloped, scarcely seeing the face of civilized

       man, there the gold-seeker builds his cities. The shadow of

       the flag of Britain has, for a while, ceased to fall on the

       Transvaal plains; the game has gone; the misty charm of the

       morning has become the glare of day. All is changed. The

       blue gums that we planted in the garden of the “Palatial”

       must be large trees by now, and the “Palatial” itself has

       passed from us. Jess sat in it waiting for her love after we

       were gone. There she nursed him back to life. But Jess is

       dead, and strangers own it, or perhaps it is a ruin.

       For us too, Macumazahn, as for the land we loved, the

       mystery and promise of the morning are outworn; the mid-day

       sun burns overhead, and at times the way is weary. Few of

       those we knew are left. Some are victims to battle and

       murder, their bones strew the veldt; death has taken some in

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