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.
"I did not suppose that the Tuareg were so observant of Mussulman tradition," said Morhange.