I looked at him uncomprehendingly.

“Not to you, Sidi Lieutenant, not to you,” his grave voice continued.  “For you will come back; and when that day comes, do not count on the help of Cegheir-ben-Cheikh.”

“I will come back?” I asked, shuddering.

“You will come back,” the Targa replied.

He was standing erect, a black statue against the wall of gray rock.

“You will come back,” he repeated with emphasis.  “You are fleeing now, but you are mistaken if you think that you will look at the world with the same eyes as before.  Henceforth, one idea, will follow you everywhere you go; and in one year, five, perhaps ten years, you will pass again through the corridor through which you have just come.”

“Be still, Cegheir-ben-Cheikh,” said the trembling voice of Tanit-Zerga.

“Be still yourself, miserable little fly,” said Cegheir-ben-Cheikh.

He sneered.

“The little one is afraid because she knows that I tell the truth.  She knows the story of Lieutenant Ghiberti.”

“Lieutenant Ghiberti?” I said, the sweat standing out on my forehead.

“He was an Italian officer whom I met between Rhat and Rhadames eight years ago.  He did not believe that love of Antinea could make him forget all else that life contained.  He tried to escape, and he succeeded.  I do not know how, for I did not help him.  He went back to his country.  But hear what happened:  two years later, to the very day, when I was leaving the look-out, I discovered a miserable tattered creature, half dead from hunger and fatigue, searching in vain for the entrance to the northern barrier.  It was Lieutenant Ghiberti, come back.  He fills niche Number 39 in the red marble hall.”

The Targa smiled slightly.

“That is the story of Lieutenant Ghiberti which you wished to hear.  But enough of this.  Mount your camel.”

I obeyed without saying a word.  Tanit-Zerga, seated behind me, put her little arms around me.  Cegheir-ben-Cheikh was still holding the bridle.

“One word more,” he said, pointing to a black spot against the violet sky of the southern horizon.  “You see the gour there; that is your way.  It is eighteen miles from here.  You should reach it by sunrise.  Then consult your map.  The next point is marked.  If you do not stray from the line, you should be at the springs of Telemsi in eight days.”

The camel’s neck was stretched toward the dark wind coming from the south.

The Targa released the bridle with a sweep of his hand.

“Now go.”

“Thank you,” I called to him, turning back in the saddle.  “Thank you, Cegheir-ben-Cheikh, and farewell.”

I heard his voice replying in the distance: 

“Au revoir, Lieutenant de Saint Avit.”

XIX

THE TANEZRUFT

During the first hour of our flight, the great mehari of Cegheir-ben-Cheikh carried us at a mad pace.  We covered at least five leagues.  With fixed eyes, I guided the beast toward the gour which the Targa had pointed out, its ridge becoming higher and higher against the paling sky.