Suddenly Eg-Anteouen leapt to his feet. He had just seen the poor
embossed bowl which the Arab had held an instant before between his
knees, and which now lay overturned upon the ground.

He picked it up, looked quickly at one after another of the leaves of
lettuce remaining in it, and then gave a hoarse exclamation.

"So," said Morhange, "it's his turn now; he is going to go mad."

Watching Eg-Anteouen closely, I saw him hasten without a word to the
rock where our dinner was set, a second later, he was again beside us,
holding out the bowl of lettuce which he had not yet touched.

Then he took a thick, long, pale green leaf from Bou-Djema's bowl and
held it beside another leaf he had just taken from our bowl.

"_Afahlehle,"_ was all he said.

I shuddered, and so did Morhange. It was the _afahlehla,_ the
_falestez_, of the Arabs of the Sahara, the terrible plant which had
killed a part of the Flatters mission more quickly and surely than
Tuareg arms.

Eg-Anteouen stood up. His tall silhouette was outlined blackly against
the sky which suddenly had turned pale lilac. He was watching us.

We bent again over the unfortunate guide.

"_Afahlehle,"_ the Targa repeated, and shook his head.