Scotland, or anywhere."

"Why don't you?" I asked.

"Oh! for many reasons. I have lost touch with all that and become half
wild and I like this life and the sunshine and being my own master.
Also, if I did, things might be raked up against me, about that man's
death. Also, though I daresay it will make you think badly of me for it,
Mr. Quatermain, I have ties down there," and he waved is hand towards
the village, if so it could be called, "which it wouldn't be easy for
me to break. A man may be fond of his children, Mr. Quatermain, even
if their skins ain't so white as they ought to be. Lastly I have
habits--you see, I am speaking out to you as man to man--which might get
me into trouble again if I went back to the world," and he nodded his
fine, capable-looking head in the direction of the bottle on the table.

"I see," I said hastily, for this kind of confession bursting out of
the man's lonely heart when what he had drunk took a hold of him, was
painful to hear. "But how about your daughter, Miss Inez?"

"Ah!" he said, with a quiver in his voice, "there you touch it. She
ought to go away. There is no one for her to marry here, where we
haven't seen a white man for years, and she's a lady right enough, like
her mother. But who is she to go to, being a Roman Catholic whom my own
dour Presbyterian folk in Scotland, if any of them are left, would turn
their backs on? Moreover, she loves me in her own fashion, as I love
her, and she wouldn't leave me because she thinks it her duty to
stay and knows that if she did, I should go to the devil altogether.
Still--perhaps you might help me about her, Mr. Quatermain, that is if
you live to come back from your journey," he added doubtfully.