The red head-band of the great rebel chief was brought back to St Louis. It was all singed and riddled with shot holes. A long festoon of talismans was suspended from it, consisting of little pouches covered with various sorts of embroidery, and containing mysterious powders, cabalistic drawings, and prayers in the Maghreb tongue. Boubakar-Ségou’s death produced a far-reaching moral effect upon the indigenous population. Inasmuch as the battle was followed by the submission of several insurgent chiefs, it might fairly be considered a victory. The expeditionary force returned to St Louis immediately. Promotions and decorations were conferred on all the participators, but there were many gaps in the ranks of the poor spahis. XXVI Jean dragged himself under the scanty foliage of the tamarisks, sought a shady spot for his head, and disposed himself there to await death. He suffered from thirst, burning thirst, and presently his throat was convulsed by slight, spasmodic movements. He had often witnessed the death of comrades in Africa, and he recognised this distressing indication of the approaching end, which people call the death sob. The blood was trickling from his side, and the arid sand drank it as if it were dew. But his sufferings diminished. Indeed, apart from this burning thirst, he was now in little pain. Strange visions passed before poor Jean’s eyes: the mountain range of the Cevennes, the well-known haunts of his childhood, his cottage in the mountains. Above all he saw visions of leafy landscapes, full of shade, mosses, coolness, and running water; his dear old mother, who took him gently by the hand to lead him as she had done in his childhood. He felt his mother’s kiss! O, his mother, there she was, smoothing his brow with her poor old trembling hands, bathing his burning head with cool water. Could it be? Never more to feel a mother’s kiss, never more to hear her voice? Never, never more? Was this the end of everything? To die there alone, all alone, in the burning sun of the desert! And he half-raised himself, unwilling to die. * * * * * “Tjean, come into our dance!” In front of him, like a whirlwind, like a furious gale, swept the circle of phantom dancers. The fierce gyrations of this vortex seemed to strike sparks from the burning pebbles. And these spectral dancers, rising in swift spirals, like smoke before a rushing wind, faded away on high, in the fiery crucible of the blue ether. Jean had the sensation of rising with them, of being borne aloft on terrible wings, and it came to him that this was the climax, the very moment of death. But it was merely a convulsion of the muscles, a horrible pang of pain. The red blood gushed from his mouth, and again a voice, whispering at his ear, said, “Tjean, come into our dance.” He grew calmer; his sufferings abated, and once more he sank down on his bed of sand. * * * * *