"Bad ... ah!... he got big house ... put women's heads on top ... on roof.... Ah, bad...."
He searched for words:
"Yes, put heads of women—many women—on roof of house ... bad, very bad...."
I was in too much pain to sleep, and had perforce to listen to his childish babble.
"So ... down there ... bad chief stick women's heads on roof ... not good, no!... down there!..."
And then the Senegalese began to speak in his own language, a lisping, sweet-sounding tongue. Perhaps he was delirious.
I felt cold, but nevertheless, after a time, found my eyelids growing heavy. Covering my legs with straw as best I could I stretched myself out and went to sleep.
It was still night when I awoke, and a thin rain, or rather drizzle, was falling. I was colder than ever, and my wound pained me severely. The veranda was still lit up. I could see the shadowy form of the negro lying next to me, but could no longer hear his breathing. I stretched out my hand and felt his. It was icy cold. The straw under me seemed wet. I looked, and discovered that my feet were lying in a pool of blood.
I stood up. The severely wounded had now been dressed. A fire had been lit in the kitchen of the farmhouse, and a white-faced Algerian was dozing in front of it. On the mantelpiece an alarum clock, standing between two brass candlesticks, marked two o'clock.