Meanwhile the sound of the great war-drums was drawing ever nearer.
Suddenly, while the mêlée was still proceeding, the spahis saw as in a dream, a great company of negroes passing by over the hill; warriors half naked, covered with grigris, were doubling in the direction of Dialdé in disorderly hordes. They had with them enormous war-drums, which four men together could hardly drag along. Their lean desert horses, seemingly full of fire and fury, were decked with tawdry harness, spangled with copper, their long tails and manes stained blood-red. It was a fantastic, demoniac procession, an African nightmare, swifter than the wind.
Boubakar-Ségou was passing.
He was on his way to hurl himself on the French forces.
He passed, paying no attention to the spahis, leaving them to the body of men who had lain in ambush for them, and were completing the work of exterminating them.
The spahis were being driven steadily back, away from the grass and water on to the arid sands, where a more overwhelming heat and an intenser glare would the sooner exhaust them.
No one had had time to reload. They fought with knives, sabres, nails, and teeth; there were many gaping wounds and bleeding bodies.
Two negroes had made a ferocious attack on Jean. He was stronger than they. In his fury he hurled them to earth time after time, but they always came back at him.
In the end his hands, slipping in blood, could no longer obtain a grip on the black, oily naked skins, and all the time his strength was ebbing because of his wounds.