“Then Djeba would have returned and waited another chance at the man. But the thought of Moa was strong on him, and the bush was at his back. So he said to himself, ‘I will return with Moa,’ and he crept away. “All that night he walked swiftly. He hid himself and slept in the day and advanced by night again. He did not know where he went, but the image and affection of his milk-brother were so powerful in Djeba that it seemed he would come truly to Moa. Because of that he remained strong. His stomach was empty but his heart was fed, and he penetrated the bush with the swiftness of a panther. He would have wished to speak with others and know his way, but if he saw slaves in the fields then he saw with them a white driver, and he was afraid. “There came a time when he saw a Senegal man working at the edge of a maize-planting, and no driver was in sight. So he showed himself, and he asked, ‘Where then are the Yankis?’ And the man answered him, ‘Go thou to Tlaanta. I know nothing, but at Tlaanta all things are known.’ “‘Where then is Tlaanta?’ Djeba demanded. And the man said, ‘If thou knowest not Tlaanta then indeed thou art an ignorant _niggah_. Turn thy face to the north, and at nightfall thou wilt behold a great _ksar_ which is Tlaanta, which is the chief place of Djoja, where all things are known--” (“Tlaanta.” Something queer was happening down in the subconscious regions of my brain. “Tlaanta, the chief place of Djoja.” The reader may laugh, but so firmly was my attention fixed in the picture of some fabulous tropical mid-African scene that the familiar syllables, blurred in the Arab utterance, touched still too lightly to make a breach. “Tlaanta Djoja--” I glanced uneasily at Borak, as though he could help. He returned my stare with a supercilious grin, as much as to say, “My word! you’re not letting yourself be taken in by this fantastic claptrap!” “_Tlaanta_, the chief place of _Djoja_”--“_Maas Djo_”--“_Yankis_”--“_Moz_”--“_Djim_”--The equatorial forest-walls were trying their hardest to topple over in my dull brain. But there was no time. I had to get back to the saga unfolding in the strong voice of the orator in that ember-lit Sahara night.) “--And when the night fell Djeba saw before him in the sky a pillar of light. And he came on a hill and saw a great settlement in flames. And then all about him came people fleeing in confusion through the dark bush, carrying on their heads their mills and cooking-pots and crying, ‘The Yankis! The Yankis are come!’ “Then Djeba was glad. He went down toward burning Tlaanta. The flame was in his face and his heart was hot, and he stood and called aloud the name of his brother of the milk. But he saw no man. A lad ran out of a shelter that took fire. Djeba caught that lad by the arm and cried, ‘Where are the Yankis?’ And the lad screamed, ‘Gone! Gone!’ and he fell down with his eyes wide open, and Djeba saw that he was dead.