He had a confused perception of these final impressions; his dead comrades, fallen by his side; the main body of the negro army ever hastening onwards, and now almost out of sight; handsome Muller near him, with the death rattle in his throat, and the blood pouring from his mouth; and further over, already at some distance, tall Nyaor cutting his way through towards Saldé, mowing a path with great sweeps of his sabre through a group of negroes.
And then three of them felled Jean to the ground, threw him on his side, holding his arms, while one of them pressed a large iron knife against his chest.
... For one terrifying moment of anguish Jean felt the pressure of this knife against his body. And there was not one human being to help him. All were dead, not a man was left.
The red cloth of his jacket, the coarse fabric of his soldier’s shirt, and his flesh formed a triple layer which offered resistance, and the knife had been badly sharpened.
The negro leaned more heavily. Jean uttered a loud, hoarse cry, and of a sudden his side was pierced. The blade, with a horrible little sound of slicing, plunged into the depths of his chest. The negro turned it in the wound, then tore it out with both hands, and kicked away the body with his foot.
Jean was the last to fall. The black demons raised their shout of victory and ran on without a moment’s delay, speeding like the wind in pursuit of their army.
The spahis were left alone; and the stillness of death descended upon them.
XXV
The main shock of the two armies took place further away, and was very bloody, although little was heard of it in France.
These minor battles, fought in a country so remote, and engaging a comparatively small number of soldiers, escape the notice of the general public; only those remember them who have lost a son or a brother.