What should he do at St Louis when he came back after his leave and reclaimed his little son? Should he re-enlist? Or would it be better to try his fortune in some independent adventure?... He might perhaps become a farmer of revenue on the river. No, he felt an invincible repugnance to any other professions than those of agriculture and arms. * * * * * All sounds of life were now hushed in the village of Dialdé, and the encampment itself was silent. From afar could be heard the lion’s roar, and every now and then the most dismal sound in the world, the howling of jackals, a dirge-like accompaniment to the poor spahi’s dream.... * * * * * From every point of view the existence of that small child was making a complete change in all his plans, rendering the difficulties of the future infinitely more complicated.... “Tjean, come into our dance!” Jean, worn out by the day’s long expedition, was half asleep, and even as he planned for his future, he saw in a dream the Bambara dance ever slowly revolving around him. The dancers flitted past with smooth movements of the limbs, languishing attitudes, to the strains of a vague music wherein there was something unearthly. “Tjean, come into our dance!” Their heads, inclining towards Jean in greeting, seemed to be bent under the burden of their lofty ceremonial headdress. And now again he saw grinning faces, death-like, leaning towards him with an air of recognition, and saying very softly with phantom smiles, “Tjean, come into our dance.” * * * * * Finally, little by little, Jean was completely overcome by weariness, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. But he had decided nothing.... XXII The great day, the day of battle, had come. At three in the morning the whole encampment of Dialdé was astir—spahis, riflemen, Bambara friendlies, were getting ready to set out on their march, with their arms and ammunition. The Marabouts had prayed at great length; numbers of talismans had been distributed. By order of the chiefs the black warriors, according to their custom on the occasion of great battles, had loaded their carbines with powder half-way up the barrel and with bullets up to the muzzle. With such thoroughness had they carried out the order that most of the firearms burst at the first discharge, not an infrequent occurrence in negro warfare. The orders were to make for the village of Djidiam, where, according to the report of the native scouts, Boubakar-Ségou had ensconced himself with his army behind thick palisades of timber and mud. Djidiam was the principal fortress of this personage, who had become almost legendary, the terror of the country—a sort of fabulous hero, whose strength lay in retreat, in hiding himself always in the recesses of his murderous country, and in baffling discovery.