XXI. THE INNOCENT BLOOD



CHAPTER I




ALLAN LEARNS FRENCH





Although in my old age I, Allan Quatermain, have taken to writing--after
a fashion--never yet have I set down a single word of the tale of my
first love and of the adventures that are grouped around her beautiful
and tragic history. I suppose this is because it has always seemed to
me too holy and far-off a matter--as holy and far-off as is that heaven
which holds the splendid spirit of Marie Marais. But now, in my age,
that which was far-off draws near again; and at night, in the depths
between the stars, sometimes I seem to see the opening doors through
which I must pass, and leaning earthwards across their threshold, with
outstretched arms and dark and dewy eyes, a shadow long forgotten by all
save me--the shadow of Marie Marais.

An old man's dream, doubtless, no more. Still, I will try to set down
that history which ended in so great a sacrifice, and one so worthy of
record, though I hope that no human eye will read it until I also am