And Morhange threw himself on a couch and began to roar with laughter again.

“See,” I said, “this is Latin.”

I had picked up several scattered papers from the work-table in the middle of the room.  Morhange took them from my hands and devoured them greedily.  His face expressed unbounded stupefaction.

“Stranger and stranger, my boy.  Someone here is composing, with much citation of texts, a dissertation on the Gorgon Islands:  de Gorgonum insulis.  Medusa, according to him, was a Libyan savage who lived near Lake Triton, our present Chott Melhrir, and it is there that Perseus ...  Ah!”

Morhange’s words choked in his throat.  A sharp, shrill voice pierced the immense room.

“Gentlemen, I beg you, let my papers alone.”

I turned toward the newcomer.

One of the Caramani curtains was drawn aside, and the most unexpected of persons came in.  Resigned as we were to unexpected events, the improbability of this sight exceeded anything our imaginations could have devised.

On the threshold stood a little bald-headed man with a pointed sallow face half hidden by an enormous pair of green spectacles and a pepper and salt beard.  No shirt was visible, but an impressive broad red cravat.  He wore white trousers.  Red leather slippers furnished the only Oriental suggestion of his costume.

He wore, not without pride, the rosette of an officer of the Department of Education.

He collected the papers which Morhange had dropped in his amazement, counted them, arranged them; then, casting a peevish glance at us, he struck a copper gong.

The portiere was raised again.  A huge white Targa entered.  I seemed to recognize him as one of the genii of the cave.[8]

[Footnote 8:  The Negro serfs among the Tuareg are generally called “white Tuareg.”  While the nobles are clad in blue cotton robes, the serfs wear white robes, hence their name of “white Tuareg.”  See, in this connection, Duveyrier:  les Tuareg du Nord, page 292. (Note by M. Leroux.)]

“Ferradji,” angrily demanded the little officer of the Department of Education, “why were these gentlemen brought into the library?”

The Targa bowed respectfully.

“Cegheir-ben-Cheikh came back sooner than we expected,” he replied, “and last night the embalmers had not yet finished.  They brought them here in the meantime,” and he pointed to us.

“Very well, you may go,” snapped the little man.

Ferradji backed toward the door.  On the threshold, he stopped and spoke again: 

“I was to remind you, sir, that dinner is served.”

“All right.  Go along.”

And the little man seated himself at the desk and began to finger the papers feverishly.

I do not know why, but a mad feeling of exasperation seized me.  I walked toward him.

“Sir,” I said, “my friend and I do not know where we are nor who you are.  We can see only that you are French, since you are wearing one of the highest honorary decorations of our country.  You may have made the same observation on your part,” I added, indicating the slender red ribbon which I wore on my vest.