At seeing us, the men drew together, alert, on the defensive.

Eg-Anteouen turned to us and said: 

“Eggali Tuareg.”

We went toward them.

They were handsome men, those Eggali, the largest Tuareg whom I ever have seen.  With unexpected swiftness they drew aside from the well, leaving it to us.  Eg-Anteouen spoke a few words to them.  They looked at Morhange and me with a curiosity bordering on fear, but at any rate, with respect.

I drew several little presents from my saddlebags and was astonished at the reserve of the chief, who refused them.  He seemed afraid even of my glance.

When they had gone, I expressed my astonishment at this shyness for which my previous experiences with the tribes of the Sahara had not prepared me.

“They spoke with respect, even with fear,” I said to Eg-Anteouen.  “And yet the tribe of the Eggali is noble.  And that of the Kel-Tahats, to which you tell me you belong, is a slave tribe.”

A smile lighted the dark eyes of Eg-Anteouen.

“It is true,” he said.

“Well then?”

“I told them that we three, the Captain, you and I, were bound for the Mountain of the Evil Spirits.”

With a gesture, he indicated the black mountain.

“They are afraid.  All the Tuareg of Ahaggar are afraid of the Mountain of the Evil Spirits.  You saw how they were up and off at the very mention of its name.”

“It is to the Mountain of the Evil Spirits that you are taking us?” queried Morhange.

“Yes,” replied the Targa, “that is where the inscriptions are that I told you about.”

“You did not mention that detail to us.”

“Why should I?  The Tuareg are afraid of the ilhinen, spirits with horns and tails, covered with hair, who make the cattle sicken and die and cast spells over men.  But I know well that the Christians are not afraid and even laugh at the fears of the Tuareg.”

“And you?” I asked.  “You are a Targa and you are not afraid of the ilhinen?”

Eg-Anteouen showed a little red leather bag hung about his neck on a chain of white seeds.

“I have my amulet,” he replied gravely, “blessed by the venerable Sidi-Moussa himself.  And then I am with you.  You saved my life.  You have desired to see the inscriptions.  The will of Allah be done!”

As he finished speaking, he squatted on his heels, drew out his long reed pipe and began to smoke gravely.

“All this is beginning to seem very strange,” said Morhange, coming over to me.

“You can say that without exaggeration,” I replied.  “You remember as well as I the passage in which Barth tells of his expedition to the Idinen, the Mountain of the Evil Spirits of the Azdjer Tuareg.  The region had so evil a reputation that no Targa would go with him.  But he got back.”

“Yes, he got back,” replied my comrade, “but only after he had been lost.  Without water or food, he came so near dying of hunger and thirst that he had to open a vein and drink his own blood.  The prospect is not particularly attractive.”