In the latter event the enemy is allowed to approach within a day's march. No advances are made, no propositions offered. The march is therefore continued on the morrow, and the camp is pitched about two leagues from that of the tribe which awaits the assault. The scouts of the two parties come into collision, and, mutually exasperating each another, prelude actual hostilities by insults. A few musket shots are exchanged, and they cry out to one another:— "O Fatma, daughters of Fatma! The night has arrived; why go on to-day? To-morrow shall be called your day." Or, "Dogs, sons of dogs, wait till to-morrow! If you are men, you will meet us." The skirmishers fall back, and the leaders on both sides organise as quickly as possible a guard of one hundred horsemen and one hundred foot-soldiers, to insure the safety of the camp. On the morrow they watch each other attentively. If one party strike their tents, the others do the same; or if they leave their tents pitched, and advance to the combat with horses and foot, and with the women mounted on camels, the example is followed on the other side. The cavaliers of the two tribes confront one another. The women are placed in the rear, ready to excite the combatants by their cries and applause, and are themselves protected by the foot-soldiers who form the reserve. The battle begins by small parties of ten or a dozen horsemen bearing down upon the flanks, and trying to turn the enemy. The chiefs, at the head of a tolerably compact mass, keep in the centre. Presently the affair grows warm and animated. The bravest and best mounted of the young men dash forward, carried away by passion and the thirst for blood. Uncovering their heads, they strike up their war-songs, and excite themselves by loud outcries:— "Where are they who have mistresses? It is beneath their eyes that the warriors will combat this day! "Where are they who, in the presence of the chiefs, were always boasting of their valour? It is to-day that tongues should be long, and not in peaceful gossipings. "Where are they who run after fame? "Forward, sons of powder! You see before you those sons of Jews! Our sabre shall drink of their blood, and their goods we will give to our women. "Strike out, young men! Strike out! It is not the balls that kill, but fate." These shouts madden the horsemen. They make their steeds rear up on end, and fire off their pieces. Every face asks for blood. They rush together, and at last attack each other with the sabre. One party or the other, however, soon gives way, and begins to fall back upon the camels carrying the women. Then shrieks arise from both sides. These scream with joy, to animate yet more the victors—those utter wrathful and terrible imprecations, to rally the failing courage of their husbands and brothers.