A yellow flame. Eg-Anteouen had struck his flint. He set fire to a pile of brush near the surface. At first we could see nothing. The smoke blinded us. Eg-Anteouen stayed at one side of the opening of the cave. He was seated and, more inscrutible than ever, had begun again to blow great puffs of gray smoke from his pipe. The burning brush cast a flickering light. I caught a glimpse of Morhange. He seemed very pale. With both hands braced against the wall, he was working to decipher a mass of signs which I could scarcely distinguish. Nevertheless, I thought I could see his hands trembling. "The devil," I thought, finding it more and more difficult to co-ordinate my thoughts, "he seems to be as unstrung as I." I heard him call out to Eg-Anteouen in what seemed to me a loud voice: "Stand to one side. Let the air in. What a smoke!" He kept on working at the signs. Suddenly I heard him again, but with difficulty. It seemed as if even sounds were confused in the smoke. "Antinea ... At last ... Antinea. But not cut in the rock ... the marks traced in ochre ... not ten years old, perhaps not five.... Oh!...." He pressed his hands to his head. Again he cried out: "It is a mystery. A tragic mystery." I laughed teasingly. "Come on, come on. Don't get excited over it." He took me by the arm and shook me. I saw his eyes big with terror and astonishment. "Are you mad?" he yelled in my face. "Not so loud," I replied with the same little laugh. He looked at me again, and sank down, overcome, on a rock opposite me. Eg-Anteouen was still smoking placidly at the mouth of the cave. We could see the red circle of his pipe glowing in the darkness. "Madman! Madman!" repeated Morhange. His voice seemed to stick in his throat. Suddenly he bent over the brush which was giving its last darts of flame, high and clear. He picked out a branch which had not yet caught. I saw him examine it carefully, then throw it back in the fire with a loud laugh. "Ha! Ha! That's good, all right!" He staggered toward Eg-Anteouen, pointing to the fire. "It's hemp. Hasheesh, hasheesh. Oh, that's a good one, all right." "Yes, it's a good one," I repeated, bursting into laughter. Eg-Anteouen quietly smiled approval. The dying fire lit his inscrutable face and flickered in his terrible dark eyes. A moment passed. Suddenly Morhange seized the Targa's arm. "I want to smoke, too," he said. "Give me a pipe." The specter gave him one. "What! A European pipe?" "A European pipe," I repeated, feeling gayer and gayer. "With an initial, 'M.' As if made on purpose. M.... Captain Morhange." "Masson," corrected Eg-Anteouen quietly. "Captain Masson," I repeated in concert with Morhange. We laughed again. "Ha! Ha! Ha! Captain Masson.... Colonel Flatters.... The well of Garama. They killed him to take his pipe ... that pipe. It was Ceghéir-ben-Cheikh who killed Captain Masson." "It was Ceghéir-ben-Cheikh," repeated the Targa with imperturbable calm.