"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. Then he took a thick, long, pale green leaf from Bou-Djema's bowl and held it beside another leaf he had just taken from our bowl. "_Afahlehle,"_ was all he said. I shuddered, and so did Morhange. It was the _afahlehla,_ the _falestez_, of the Arabs of the Sahara, the terrible plant which had killed a part of the Flatters mission more quickly and surely than Tuareg arms. Eg-Anteouen stood up. His tall silhouette was outlined blackly against the sky which suddenly had turned pale lilac. He was watching us. We bent again over the unfortunate guide. "_Afahlehle,"_ the Targa repeated, and shook his head. * * * * * Bou-Djema died in the middle of the night without having regained consciousness. VII THE COUNTRY OF FEAR "It is curious," said Morhange, "to see how our expedition, uneventful since we left Ouargla, is now becoming exciting." He said this after kneeling for a moment in prayer before the painfully dug grave in which we had lain the guide. I do not believe in God. But if anything can influence whatever powers there may be, whether of good or of evil, of light or of darkness, it is the prayer of such a man. For two days we picked our way through a gigantic chaos of black rock in what might have been the country of the moon, so barren was it. No sound but that of stones rolling under the feet of the camels and striking like gunshots at the foot of the precipices.