He begged and implored with so much persistence that at last I decided to please him. I put him in my hat, mounted my horse and started. I found the general riding in the midst of his guard. I asked to speak to him alone on a very important affair. “General,” I said gravely, “if you enter that valley you are lost!” He stopped his horse, looked at me in amazement, and broke into a laugh. “Ha, ha, you are joking.” Indeed, I felt a little shaky. I should have liked to beg his pardon and withdraw in peace, but I knew that Fiam was listening, and I had unlimited faith in him. “I am not joking,” I said. “I beg you to believe that you risk having this part of your army captured.” He looked at me attentively as I went on: “Send out your scouts, and you will be convinced of it.” Then he replied courteously: “I have sent. The road is clear. Don’t worry. I think you need to take care of yourself. At the first stop take a long rest. Good-bye, and thank you.” He held out his hand to me, spurred his horse, and rode off. [Illustration: The Effect of Fiam’s Foresight] CHAPTER XIX THE EFFECT OF FIAM’S FORESIGHT As soon as we were alone I said to Fiam: “You see what a fine figure you made me cut.” He gave no answer. My request to dictate a telegram to the newspaper he flatly refused. Half an hour later we arrived at the encampment. From inside my tent I heard a horse trotting and then stop. A voice asked: “May I come in?” “Come in,” I cried. An officer entered. I knew him at once. It was the surgeon I had talked to on the railroad train. “The general sent me,” he announced. “I am an army surgeon; my name is Tasa. Let me feel your pulse.” “But I am very well,” I replied, irritated. “Keep calm. The general’s orders,” he whispered smiling. I held out my hand. He felt my pulse, looking at his watch, then commanded: “Let me see your tongue.” I showed it to him, at the same time making a face. “Facial contraction,” he murmured, and then asked aloud: “Do you still talk to yourself?” “No.” “With Fiam!” “Let me alone; I am perfectly well.” “No, you are ill, and I must cure you. I order ice on the head.” “I have no ice.” “But I have some.” He went outside, took a piece of ice from his saddle bag, placed it on my head, bound it tight and said: “I will return later.” For two days I endured this torture, which gave me the worst cold I ever had in my life. I vowed to Fiam that I would never give any more strategical advice to a general, not if the world perished. The terrible perplexities of my little friend did not seem to be fulfilled. Indeed, we entered the valley that he dreaded so much and marched steadily a whole day.