"We had better stop here," he said simply. "Eg-Anteouen advises us to
take as much water here as we can carry."
With one accord we decided to spend the night there, before
undertaking the mountain.
There was a spring, in a dark basin, from which fell a little cascade;
there were a few shrubs, a few plants.
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
tradition," said Morhange.
"Nor I," I replied thoughtfully.
But I had something to do at that moment besides making such
speculations.
"Bou-Djema," I called.
At the same time, I looked at Eg-Anteouen. Absorbed in his prayer,
bowed toward the west, apparently he was paying no attention to me. As
he prostrated himself, I called again.
"Bou-Djema, come with me to my mehari; I want to get something out of
the saddle bags."
Still kneeling, Eg-Anteouen was mumbling his prayer slowly,
composedly.
But Bou-Djema had not budged.
His only response was a deep moan.
Morhange and I leaped to our feet and ran to the guide. Eg-Anteouen
reached him as soon as we did.
With his eyes closed and his limbs already cold, the Chaamba breathed
a death rattle in Morhange's arms. I had seized one of his hands.
Eg-Anteouen took the other. Each, in his own way, was trying to
divine, to understand....
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.
* * * * *
Bou-Djema died in the middle of the night without having regained
consciousness.