Eg-Anteouen's camel was a dozen yards ahead of us, side by side with Morhange's. The two men were talking. I realized that Morhange must be conversing with Eg-Anteouen about the famous inscriptions. But we were not so far behind that they could not have overheard our words. Again I looked at my guide. I saw that he was pale. "What is it, Bou-Djema?" I asked in a low voice. "Not here, Lieutenant, not here," he muttered. His teeth chattered. He added in a whisper: "Not here. This evening, when we stop, when he turns to the East to pray, when the sun goes down. Then, call me to you. I will tell you.... But not here. He is talking, but he is listening. Go ahead. Join the Captain." "What next?" I murmured, pressing my camel's neck with my foot so as to make him overtake Morhange. * * * * * It was about five o'clock when Eg-Anteouen who was leading the way, came to a stop. "Here it is," he said, getting down from his camel. It was a beautiful and sinister place. To our left a fantastic wall of granite outlined its gray ribs against the sky. This wall was pierced, from top to bottom, by a winding corridor about a thousand feet high and scarcely wide enough in places to allow three camels to walk abreast. "Here it is," repeated the Targa. To the west, straight behind us, the track that we were leaving unrolled like a pale ribbon. The white plain, the road to Shikh-Salah, the established halts, the well-known wells.... And, on the other side, this black wall against the mauve sky, this dark passage. I looked at Morhange. "We had better stop here," he said simply. "Eg-Anteouen advises us to take as much water here as we can carry." 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.