They were to camp during the afternoon in the great woods adjoining the enemy headquarters, and finally to fall upon Djidiam by night, to set fire to the village, which would burn in the moonlight like an _auto-da-fé_ of straw. Then they were to return victorious to St Louis, before fever should have had time to decimate the expedition. On the eve of battle Jean had written a very affectionate letter to his old parents—a poor, pencilled letter! It went down the river by the Falémé on that very day, and must have soothed the heart of his old mother, in that far country.... A little before sunrise he kissed his child, who lay asleep in the arms of Fatou-gaye. Then he mounted his horse. XXIII In the early morning Fatou-gaye, with her son in her arms, likewise took the road. She made her way to Nialoumbaé, a village belonging to a friendly tribe, the dwelling place of a famous Marabout, a preacher renowned for the arts of prediction and sorcery. She asked her way to the hut of this centenarian, whom she found prostrate on his mat, muttering, like a dying man, prayers to his deity. They had a long interview, and it resulted in the priest putting into the girl’s hands a small leather pouch, seemingly containing something very precious; and this pouch Fatou secured carefully in her waistband. Then the Marabout administered a sleeping draught to Jean’s child, and in exchange Fatou offered the priest three large silver coins, the spahi’s last _khâliss_, which the old man put away in his purse. Then Fatou tenderly wrapped her son, already sunk into a charmed sleep, in an embroidered _pagne_, fastened the precious burden on to her back, and had herself directed to the woods, where the French were to camp that evening. XXIV It is seven in the morning, the scene a forlorn spot in the country of Diambour, a grass-covered marsh, surrounding a small sheet of water. To the north a low hill bounds the horizon. Southwards as far as the eye can see stretch the great levels of Dialakar. All is still and desolate; the sun mounts tranquilly into an azure sky. In this African landscape, which would have fitted equally well into some solitary tract of ancient Gaul, horsemen come into view. They sit their horses proudly, handsome fellows all of them, in their red jackets, blue pantaloons, large white hats slouched over their bronzed faces. There are twelve of them, twelve spahis sent out as scouts in charge of an adjutant, and Jean is one of them. The air holds no presage of death, no foreboding of ill-omen, nothing but the calmness and purity of the heavens. In the marshes the tall grasses, still wet with the dews of night, are sparkling in the sun; dragon flies are hovering on their long, black-flecked wings; waterlilies are opening their large white calyces.