With one accord we decided to spend the night there, before undertaking the mountain.

There was a spring, in a dark basin, from which fell a little cascade; there were a few shrubs, a few plants.

Already the camels were browsing at the length of their tethers.

Bou-Djema arranged our camp dinner service of tin cups and plates on a great flat stone.  An opened tin of meat lay beside a plate of lettuce which he had just gathered from the moist earth around the spring.  I could tell from the distracted manner in which he placed these objects upon the rock how deep was his anxiety.

As he was bending toward me to hand me a plate, he pointed to the gloomy black corridor which we were about to enter.

“Blad-el-Khouf!" he murmured.

“What did he say?” asked Morhange, who had seen the gesture.

“Blad-el-Khouf.  This is the country of fear. That is what the Arabs call Ahaggar.”

Bou-Djema went a little distance off and sat down, leaving us to our dinner.  Squatting on his heels, he began to eat a few lettuce leaves that he had kept for his own meal.

Eg-Anteouen was still motionless.

Suddenly the Targa rose.  The sun in the west was no larger than a red brand.  We saw Eg-Anteouen approach the fountain, spread his blue burnous on the ground and kneel upon it.

“I did not suppose that the Tuareg were so observant of Mussulman tradition,” said Morhange.

“Nor I,” I replied thoughtfully.

But I had something to do at that moment besides making such speculations.

“Bou-Djema,” I called.

At the same time, I looked at Eg-Anteouen.  Absorbed in his prayer, bowed toward the west, apparently he was paying no attention to me.  As he prostrated himself, I called again.

“Bou-Djema, come with me to my mehari; I want to get something out of the saddle bags.”

Still kneeling, Eg-Anteouen was mumbling his prayer slowly, composedly.

But Bou-Djema had not budged.

His only response was a deep moan.

Morhange and I leaped to our feet and ran to the guide.  Eg-Anteouen reached him as soon as we did.

With his eyes closed and his limbs already cold, the Chaamba breathed a death rattle in Morhange’s arms.  I had seized one of his hands.  Eg-Anteouen took the other.  Each, in his own way, was trying to divine, to understand....

Suddenly Eg-Anteouen leapt to his feet.  He had just seen the poor embossed bowl which the Arab had held an instant before between his knees, and which now lay overturned upon the ground.

He picked it up, looked quickly at one after another of the leaves of lettuce remaining in it, and then gave a hoarse exclamation.

“So,” said Morhange, “it’s his turn now; he is going to go mad.”

Watching Eg-Anteouen closely, I saw him hasten without a word to the rock where our dinner was set, a second later, he was again beside us, holding out the bowl of lettuce which he had not yet touched.