"Where are they who have mistresses? It is beneath their eyes that the warriors will combat this day!
"Where are they who, in the presence of the chiefs, were always boasting of their valour? It is to-day that tongues should be long, and not in peaceful gossipings.
"Where are they who run after fame?
"Forward, sons of powder! You see before you those sons of Jews! Our sabre shall drink of their blood, and their goods we will give to our women.
"Strike out, young men! Strike out! It is not the balls that kill, but fate."
These shouts madden the horsemen. They make their steeds rear up on end, and fire off their pieces. Every face asks for blood. They rush together, and at last attack each other with the sabre. One party or the other, however, soon gives way, and begins to fall back upon the camels carrying the women. Then shrieks arise from both sides. These scream with joy, to animate yet more the victors—those utter wrathful and terrible imprecations, to rally the failing courage of their husbands and brothers.
"Look at those famous warriors who show off with their bright stirrups and splendid garments at marriage feasts and festivals! Look at them running away and abandoning even their women! O Jews, and sons of Jews! alight and let us mount your horses, and from henceforth you shall no longer be counted among men. Oh! Allah curse all cowards!"
These railings recall the spirit of the vanquished. They make a vigorous effort, and, supported by the fire of the foot-soldiers who are in reserve, they recover the lost ground, and even hurl the enemy back into the midst of his own women, who now rail as loudly as they lately applauded. The struggle is renewed on the ground that separates the women of the two tribes. During these varying phases the contest has been very desperate, and before long the side that has most men and horses wounded, that has lost the greatest number, and, above all, that has witnessed the fall of its most valiant chiefs, takes to flight, notwithstanding the exhortations and prayers of a few energetic men, who fly from right to left, trying to rally the fugitives and restore the fight. These brave fellows cry aloud:— "Are there any men here, or are there not? Hold your own souls! If you flee, they will carry off your women and leave you nothing but shame. Die! Let it not be said: 'They fled!' Die! and you will yet live!"
A beautiful and touching scene will, perhaps, then be enacted. A chief of the highest rank, in despair at being defeated, throws himself into the mêlée to seek death, but is held back by the young men who gather round him, and beseech him to retire. "Thou art our father!" they will exclaim; "What will become of us if thou shouldst perish? It is our duty to die for thee. We will not remain as sheep without a shepherd." A handful of warriors still endeavour to make head against the foe, but they are swept away in the general rout, and soon find themselves by the side of their women. Every one, then, seeing that all is lost, devotes himself to saving what is dearest to him. As rapidly as possible they make to the rear, only from time to time facing about to check the pursuit of the enemy.
The audacity of desperation has more than once changed the face of things. Aïssa-ben-el-Sheriff, a child of fourteen, mounted on horseback with his tribe to repel an attack directed by Sid-el-Djedid. The Arbâa were beginning to give way and take to flight, when the boy, throwing himself before them, tried to stop them: "What!" he exclaimed, "You are men, and are afraid! You have been brought up in the midst of powder, and do not know how to burn it! Did you pay all that attention to your mares only to make use of them in flight?" And when the others replied, "Djedid! Djedid! Look at Djedid!" "Djedid," continued the child. "It is a single man that makes you flee! Behold, then, this terrible warrior, who puts hundreds to the rout, checked in his victorious career by a child!" With these words he dashed his spurs into his horse's flanks, and came up with the redoubtable warrior. Djedid, fearing nothing from a mere boy, was off his guard, but the latter threw himself round his neck, entwined his arms round him, and, leaving his own horse, hung by one arm, while with the other he endeavoured to stab him with his knife. Astonished at such audacity, and hampered in his movements, Djedid strove in vain to shake him off, but with all his presence of mind he was unable to parry the boy's frequent thrusts. Puzzled what to do, he slipped off his horse, hoping to crush Aïssa in his fall. The latter, however, succeeded in avoiding him, and throwing himself on the courser of the dreaded chief, rejoined his tribe, to whom he exhibited a trophy that made the oldest warrior blush for the momentary panic to which they had yielded.