“I am a Sonrhai,” she repeated.  “I was born at Gao, on the Niger, the ancient Sonrhai capital.  My fathers reigned over the great Mandingue Empire.  You need not scorn me because I am here as a slave.”

In a ray of sunlight, Gale, seated on his little haunches, washed his shining mustaches with his forepaws; and King Hiram, stretched out on the mat, groaned plaintively in his sleep.

“He is dreaming,” said Tanit-Zerga, a finger on her lips.

There was a moment of silence.  Then she said: 

“You must be hungry.  And I do not think that you will want to eat with the others.”

I did not answer.

“You must eat,” she continued.  “If you like, I will go get something to eat for you and me.  I will bring King Hiram’s and Gale’s dinner here, too.  When you are sad, you should not stay alone.”

And the little green and gold fairy vanished, without waiting for my answer.

That was how my friendship with Tanit-Zerga began.  Each morning she came to my room with the two beasts.  She rarely spoke to me of Antinea, and when she did, it was always indirectly.  The question that she saw ceaselessly hovering on my lips seemed to be unbearable to her, and I felt her avoiding all the subjects towards which I, myself, dared not direct the conversation.

To make sure of avoiding them, she prattled, prattled, prattled, like a nervous little parokeet.

I was sick and this Sister of Charity in green and bronze silk tended me with such care as never was before.  The two wild beasts, the big and the little, were there, each side of my couch, and, during my delirium, I saw their mysterious, sad eyes fixed on me.

In her melodious voice, Tanit-Zerga told me wonderful stories, and among them, the one she thought most wonderful, the story of her life.

It was not till much later, very suddenly, that I realized how far this little barbarian had penetrated into my own life.  Wherever thou art at this hour, dear little girl, from whatever peaceful shores thou watchest my tragedy, cast a look at thy friend, pardon him for not having accorded thee, from the very first, the gratitude that thou deservedest so richly.

“I remember from my childhood,” she said, “the vision of a yellow and rose-colored sun rising through the morning mists over the smooth waves of a great river, ‘the river where there is water,’ the Niger, it was....  But you are not listening to me.”

“I am listening to you, I swear it, little Tanit-Zerga.”

“You are sure I am not wearying you?  You want me to go on?”

“Go on, little Tanit-Zerga, go on.”

“Well, with my little companions, of whom I was very fond, I played at the edge of the river where there is water, under the jujube trees, brothers of the zeg-zeg, the spines of which pierced the head of your prophet and which we call ‘the tree of Paradise’ because our prophet told us that under it would live those chosen of Paradise;[15] and which is sometimes so big, so big, that a horseman cannot traverse its shade in a century.