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.