Her gleaming eyes became imploring.
"Yes, dear little girl. Gâo is there. But for God's sake lie down. The sun is fearful."
"Oh, Gâo, Gâo!" she repeated. "I know very well that I shall see Gâo again."
She sat up. Her fiery little hands gripped mine.
"Listen. I must tell you so you can understand how I know I shall see Gâo again."
"Tanit-Zerga, be quiet, my little girl, be quiet."
"No, I must tell you. A long time ago, on the bank of the river where there is water, at Gâo, where my father was a prince, there was.... Well, one day, one feast day, there
came from the interior of the country an old magician, dressed in skins and feathers, with a mask and a pointed head-dress, with castanets, and two serpents in a bag. On the village square, where all our people formed in a circle, he danced the boussadilla. I was in the first row, and because I had a necklace of pink tourmaline, he quickly saw that I was the daughter of a chief. So he spoke to me of the past, of the great Mandingue Empire over which my grandfathers had ruled, of our enemies, the fierce Kountas, of everything, and finally he said:
"'Have no fear, little girl.'
"Then he said again, 'Do not be afraid. Evil days may be in store for you, but what does that matter? For one day you will see Gâo gleaming on the horizon, no longer a servile Gâo reduced to the rank of a little Negro town, but the splendid Gâo of other days, the great capital of the country of the blacks, Gâo reborn, with its mosque of seven towers and fourteen cupolas of turquoise, with its houses with cool courts, its fountains, its watered gardens, all blooming with great red and white flowers.... That will be for you the hour of deliverance and of royalty.'"