Having taken this oath, they arrange to start on the following morning. At the appointed hour a man of high birth, noble among the noblest, mounts on horseback, orders his women, borne on camels, to follow him, and gives the signal. There is a general movement, and all set out. The eye is dazzled by the strange and picturesque confusion, the many-hued crowd of horses, warriors, and camels bearing rich palanquins in which the women are inclosed. Here are the foot-soldiers, who march by themselves—there the horsemen, who superintend the female procession. Others, again, more impetuous and thoughtless, dash on in front or spread out on the flanks, but rather as hunters than as scouts, and with their greyhounds run down the gazelle, the hare, the antelope, and the ostrich. The chiefs, however, are more serious. Upon their shoulders rests the whole responsibility. To them will accrue the largest share of the plunder, if the expedition succeed; and upon them, also, in the event of failure, will fall imprecations, ruin, and shame. They, therefore, consult together and form their plans. Lastly, come the camels that carry the supplies. Thus the host advances, adapting itself to the irregularities of the ground, all in wild confusion, every one noisy and joyous, thinking much of the adventure, nothing of the fatigue, dreaming of glory, not of danger. The warriors relate their former exploits, while the players on the flute accompany them, inspiriting or interrupting them, and the women utter joyful cries. And above all this uproar are heard the loud reports of fire-arms. The firing ceases, and a young and handsome horseman strikes up one of those love-songs, through which the ardour of their passion scatters strange images and striking colours, and which, in the desert, have always a fresh charm for these chivalrous nations. My heart burns with fire For a woman come forth from paradise; O ye who know not Meryem [Mary], That miracle of the one Allah, I will show you her portrait. Meryem, she is Osman Bey himself When he appears with his standards, And the roll of his drums, And his _goums_ following behind. Meryem, she is a blood mare That lives in luxury In a gilded palace; And loves the leafy shade, And drinks limpid water, And will have negro slaves to wait upon her. Meryem, she is the moon of stars That betrays robbers; Or, rather she is the palm-tree Of the country of the Beni-Mezab,[78] The fruit of which grows so high That no one can gather it.