And in the transparent night the circle revolved almost noiselessly; the movement was slow, but light-footed as a spirit dance. The sweep of the draperies gave forth rustling sounds like the feathers of great birds.... And the dancers, all in unison, assumed various poses, poised on tiptoe, swaying backwards or forwards, flinging out in one simultaneous movement their long arms, and thus spreading out, like transparent wings, the innumerable folds of their muslin robes. There was a soft accompaniment of tom-toms, as if muted; the wailing flutes and the ivory horns sounded muffled and remote. This monotonous music, which gave the tune to the circular dance of the Bambaras, resembled a magical incantation. And all the dancers, as they passed the spahi, bent their heads towards him as a sign of recognition, and smiled as they said to him, “Tjean, come into our dance.” ... Jean also recognised most of them in their festal robes; they were black spahis or riflemen, who had donned the long white _bou-bou_ and the _temba-sembé_, the ceremonial headdress. Jean smiled and greeted them as he made his way through, “Good evening, Niodagal; good evening, Imobé-Fafandou; good evening, Dempa-Taco and Samba-Fall; good evening, big Nyaor,” for Nyaor was there, too, one of the tallest and handsomest.... But nonetheless Jean quickened his step, anxious to shake off these long coils of white-robed dancers, ever winding and unwinding themselves around him. All this was affecting him—the night, the dance, and the music, which seemed to be that of another world. * * * * * And ever they repeated, “Tjean, come into our dance,” and they continued to flit around him like visions, sportively encircling him, purposely extending their winding chain to prevent him from making his escape.... XXI As soon as Jean had lain down in his tent, he set himself to work out a whole host of new plans for the future. He was certainly going back first of all to see his old father and mother. Nothing should induce him to postpone this visit. But after that he would undoubtedly have to return to Africa, now that he had a son. He realised clearly that he already loved this little child of his with all his heart, and that no consideration on earth could induce him to abandon him. * * * * * Without, in the Bambara encampment, could be heard at regular intervals the voices of the griots, chanting on three dismal notes the sacred war cry. They cast this owl-like chant over the slumbering tents, and lulled the black warriors into their first sleep with exhortations to be brave, and to load their carbines with several bullets at once on the day of battle. Everyone was aware that the day was close at hand, and Boubakar-Ségou not far off. * * * * *