The White Stranger is, more or less, looked upon as fair game for the beggar, and for the artful salesman. I once had reason to inquire, when near Ideles, if any native remembered Geyr von Schweppenburg, who had made a zoological expedition to Ahaggar in 1914, and one individual recalled the event owing solely to the fact that “_The white man gave a woman some needles, and paid 10 francs for a goat_.” As a race, the Tuaregs are grave and haughty, and stand aloof from everyone. Their bearing suggests the inheritance that is claimed for them, for it is fairly well established that they are a white race akin to some of the oldest European stocks. Some can trace their descent back about 500 years, in the district they reside in to-day; but they have no written records, and all declare that they came originally from Mecca or Medina, which, as they are Moslems, is their general way of expressing that they came from the north, from a land beyond Africa. I consider them to be of varying castes, when divided by widely separated regions, and am more attracted to the fine physiognomy of the Tuareg of the south, than to the heavier features of many of the Tuaregs of the north. Through mating with captive women or serfs, the blood is not always pure. All true Tuaregs should be fair-skinned; and many of them are almost white. Small feet, delicate hands, refined wrists and ankles, clean-cut facial features further betray their Semitic origin. All have splendid carriage, and they are born athletes. They are superb camel-men, and wonderful travellers, rich in instincts of direction, born to endurance, and used to eating and drinking as little as possible on the trail, when food and water mean life or death. They are seen at their best on the open road. In the camps they have little to do and grow lazy. In spirit, when by themselves, they are care-free and moderately contented; nevertheless, there is a curious underlying sadness in their character, caught partly, perhaps, from the religion of the Koran, and partly from drear environment where existence, of necessity, is eked out to the lowest ebb of fortune in a land that holds no kindness, and ever threatens the destruction of their race. [Illustration: A TUAREG VILLAGE] [Illustration: THE WELL-HEAD PASTORAL SCENES] They know much of poverty, and the herds of camels, goats, and sheep are their sole possessions of value, outside their freedom—which is precious beyond all else. I conclude with an extract from my diary: “The Tuareg encampment is situated in a fork of the Tesselaman Wadi, among low, wintry-looking acacias. Monotonous ranges of pale sand, and odd tufts of bleached grass, is all else in view. A hot, sand-filled wind sweeps across the land, and the sting of the glowing sun sickens all that lives.