The peaks of the mountains which towered on all sides were completely covered with snow.

The blue stream, the green palms, the golden fruit, and above it all, the miraculous snow, all this bathed in that limpid air, gave such an impression of beauty, of purity, that my poor human strength could no longer stand the sight of it.  I laid my forehead on the balustrade, which, too, was covered with that heavenly snow, and began to cry like a baby.

Morhange was behaving like another child.  But he had awakened before I had, and doubtless had had time to grasp, one by one, all these details whose fantastic ensemble staggered me.

He laid his hand on my shoulder and gently pulled me back into the room.

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” he said.  “Look!  Look!”

“Morhange!”

“Well, old man, what do you want me to do about it?  Look!”

I had just realized that the strange room was furnished—­God forgive me—­in the European fashion.  There were indeed, here and there, round leather Tuareg cushions, brightly colored blankets from Gafsa, rugs from Kairouan, and Caramani hangings which, at that moment, I should have dreaded to draw aside.  But a half-open panel in the wall showed a bookcase crowded with books.  A whole row of photographs of masterpieces of ancient art were hung on the walls.  Finally there was a table almost hidden under its heap of papers, pamphlets, books.  I thought I should collapse at seeing a recent number of the Archaeological Review.

I looked at Morhange.  He was looking at me, and suddenly a mad laugh seized us and doubled us up for a good minute.

“I do not know,” Morhange finally managed to say, “whether or not we shall regret some day our little excursion into Ahaggar.  But admit, in the meantime, that it promises to be rich in unexpected adventures.  That unforgettable guide who puts us to sleep just to distract us from the unpleasantness of caravan life and who lets me experience, in the best of good faith, the far-famed delights of hasheesh:  that fantastic night ride, and, to cap the climax, this cave of a Nureddin who must have received the education of the Athenian Bersot at the French Ecole Normale—­all this is enough, on my word, to upset the wits of the best balanced.”

“What do I think, my poor friend?  Why, just what you yourself think.  I don’t understand it at all, not at all.  What you politely call my learning is not worth a cent.  And why shouldn’t I be all mixed up?  This living in caves amazes me.  Pliny speaks of the natives living in caves, seven days’ march southwest of the country of the Amantes, and twelve days to the westward of the great Syrte.  Herodotus says also that the Garamentes used to go out in their chariots to hunt the cave-dwelling Ethopians.  But here we are in Ahaggar, in the midst of the Targa country, and the best authorities tell us that the Tuareg never have been willing to live in caves.  Duveyrier is precise on that point.  And what is this, I ask you, but a cave turned into a workroom, with pictures of the Venus de Medici and the Apollo Sauroctone on the walls?  I tell you that it is enough to drive you mad.”