"And the camels?" I hazarded.

"They are tethered," said Eg-Anteouen, "and we shall not be gone
long."

He had started toward the black mountain. Morhange, trembling with
excitement, followed. I followed, too, the victim of profound
uneasiness. My pulses throbbed. "I am not afraid," I kept repeating to
myself. "I swear that this is not fear."

And really it was not fear. Yet, what a strange dizziness! There was a
mist over my eyes. My ears buzzed. Again I heard Eg-Anteouen's voice,
but multiplied, immense, and at the same time, very low.

"The Daughters of the Night are seven...."

It seemed to me that the voice of the mountain, re-echoing, repeated
that sinister last line to infinity:

"And the seventh is a boy, one of whose eyes has flown
away."

"Here it is," said the Targa.

A black hole in the wall opened up. Bending over, Eg-Anteouen entered.
We followed him. The darkness closed around us.

A yellow flame. Eg-Anteouen had struck his flint. He set fire to a
pile of brush near the surface. At first we could see nothing. The