Already the camels were browsing at the length of their tethers.

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