Morhange listened without saying a word. Doubtless he understood as I did: the overheated rocks, the crackling of the stone, a whole series of physical phenomena, the example of the singing statue of Memnon.... But, for all
that, this unexpected concert reacted no less painfully on our overstrained nerves.
The last words of poor Bou-Djema came to my mind.
"The country of fear," I murmured in a low voice.
And Morhange repeated:
"The country of fear."
The strange concert ceased as the first stars appeared in the sky. With deep emotion we watched the tiny bluish flames appear, one after another. At that portentous moment they seemed to span the distance between us, isolated, condemned, lost, and our brothers of higher latitudes, who at that hour were rushing about their poor pleasures with delirious frenzy in cities where the whiteness of electric lamps came on in a burst.
Chêt-Ahadh essa hetîsenet
Mâteredjrê d'Erredjaot,
Mâtesekek d-Essekâot,
Mâtelahrlahr d'Ellerhâot,
Ettâs djenen, barâd tît-ennit abâtet.
Eg-Anteouen's voice raised itself in slow guttural tones. It resounded with sad, grave majesty in the silence now complete.
I touched the Targa's arm. With a movement of his head, he pointed to a constellation glittering in the firmament.