“You can stay here,” he added.

“My choice is made, Cegheir-ben-Cheikh,” I announced.

“Good!” he replied, again opening out the roll of paper.  “This trail begins at the second barrier of earth, to which I will lead you.  It ends at Iferouane.  I have marked the wells, but do not trust to them too much, for many of them are dry.  Be careful not to stray from the route.  If you lose it, it is death....  Now mount the camel with the little one.  Two make less noise than four.”

We went a long way in silence.  Cegheir-ben-Cheikh walked ahead and his camel followed meekly.  We crossed, first, a dark passage, then, a deep gorge, then another passage....  The entrance to each was hidden by a thick tangle of rocks and briars.

Suddenly a burning breath touched our faces.  A dull reddish light filtered in through the end of the passage.  The desert lay before us.

Cegheir-ben-Cheikh had stopped.

“Get down,” he said.

A spring gurgled out of the rock.  The Targa went to it and filled a copper cup with the water.

“Drink,” he said, holding it out to each of us in turn.  We obeyed.

“Drink again,” he ordered.  “You will save just so much of the contents of your water skins.  Now try not to be thirsty before sunset.”

He looked over the saddle girths.

“That’s all right,” he murmured.  “Now go.  In two hours the dawn will be here.  You must be out of sight.”

I was filled with emotion at this last moment; I went to the Targa and took his hand.

“Cegheir-ben-Cheikh,” I asked in a low voice, “why are you doing this?”

He stepped back and I saw his dark eyes gleam.

“Why?” he said.

“Yes, why?”

He replied with dignity: 

“The Prophet permits every just man, once in his lifetime, to let pity take the place of duty.  Cegheir-ben-Cheikh is turning this permission to the advantage of one who saved his life.”

“And you are not afraid,” I asked, “that I will disclose the secret of Antinea if I return among Frenchmen?” He shook his head.

“I am not afraid of that,” he said, and his voice was full of irony.  “It is not to your interest that Frenchmen should know how the Captain met his death.”

I was horrified at this logical reply.

“Perhaps I am doing wrong,” the Targa went on, “in not killing the little one....  But she loves you.  She will not talk.  Now go.  Day is coming.”

I tried to press the hand of this strange rescuer, but he again drew back.

“Do not thank me.  What I am doing, I do to acquire merit in the eyes of God.  You may be sure that I shall never do it again neither for you nor for anyone else.”

And, as I made a gesture to reassure him on that point, “Do not protest,” he said in a tone the mockery of which still sounds in my ears.  “Do not protest.  What I am doing is of value to me, but not to you.”