Hannibal grew frantic. Accursed bird that was keeping him awake! He could sleep in the din of battle! Accustomed from boyhood to the camp, the hoarse songs of the mercenaries and the whinnying of horses would fail to arouse him, and the harsh trumpet-blast of war had been his lullaby. But the sweet song of that bird, its incessant melodious trill, annoyed him like the buzzing of a hornet. He sprang from his couch; he groped in the dark amid the litter of arms, fabrics, and furniture; he burst out through the doorway of his tent, and the fresh night soothed his tempestuous spirit. The moon was shining in a cloudless sky; the breeze was warm, although it was the end of autumn; stars scintillated; the nightingale's trills were answered by another and yet another bird, throughout the expanse of the valley. The camp lay at rest. The flames were flickering out from dying bonfires near which soldiers were sleeping along with women and children of the army, wrapped in rags and in rich stolen fabrics; the horses picketed to the ground, pointed their nodding heads in a straight line; in the distance, the beleaguered city crouched dark and silent as if asleep, but a faint glow escaping through loopholes in its walls produced the effect of half-open eyes watching while feigning sleep. Hannibal leaped over the trusted soldiers who slept near the door of his tent. They raised up as they heard his footsteps, but recognizing the chief, lay down on the ground again and continued snoring. They were veterans from Hamilcar's wars, who looked with almost religious veneration on the lion cub of their old captain. As he turned the corner of the tent he drew his bow to shoot at the bird hidden in the foliage; but he started in surprise on seeing a white figure standing near the trunk of the tree, shining in the moonlight. It was a woman, an Amazon. On her head and on her breast glistened the helmet of gold and the cuirass of scales; her white linen tunic fell over her limbs, outlining her form, and her strong bare arms were resting on her lance with its shoe driven into the ground. Her dark eyes were fastened on Hannibal's tent with strange, unblinking persistence, as if she were dreaming awake, and the night-wind lightly swayed her floating hair. Behind her stood a black horse with glossy coat, nervous legs, and eyes injected with blood, destitute of saddle or bridle, his mane unbound; he was bending down to lick the border of the Amazon's tunic and her nude feet, like a dog which followed her everywhere. "Asbyte!" exclaimed Hannibal, surprised at the apparition. "What are you doing here?" The queen of the Amazons seemed to awake, and seeing the chief, she fixed on him the moist and impassioned gaze of her large eyes.