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Updated: June 10, 2025
"The Pleiades," I murmured to Morhange, showing him the seven pale stars, while Eg-Anteouen took up his mournful song in the same monotone: "The Daughters of the Night are seven: Mâteredjrê and Erredjeâot, Mâtesekek and Essekâot, Mâtelahrlahr and Ellerhâot, The seventh is a boy, one of whose eyes has flown away." A sudden sickness came over me.
This course in Berber writing, after the emotions through which we had just passed, seemed to me a little inopportune. But Morhange was so visibly delighted that I could not dash his joy. "Very well then," began my companion, as much at his, ease as if he had been before a blackboard, "what will strike you first about this inscription is its repetition in the form of a cross.
Morhange also noticed it, for he finished with a loud laugh. "Then, after splitting his skull, you robbed him. You took his pipe from him. Bravo, Ceghéir-ben-Cheikh!" Ceghéir-ben-Cheikh does not reply, but I can see how satisfied with himself he is. He keeps on smoking. I can hardly see his features now. The firelight pales, dies. I have never laughed so much as this evening.
"When the legs of the mohor tremble it is because the firmament is shaken," he muttered. "A storm?" "Yes, a storm." "And you find that alarming?" I did not answer immediately. I was exchanging several brief words with Bou-Djema, who was occupied in soothing the camels which were giving signs of being restive. Morhange repeated his question. I shrugged my shoulders. "Alarming? I don't know.
"Mademoiselle Tanit-Zerga, of Gâo, on the Niger. Her family is almost as ancient as mine." As she spoke, she looked at me. Her green eyes seemed to be appraising me. "And your comrade, the Captain?" she asked in a dreamy tone. "I have not yet seen him. What is he like? Does he resemble you?" For the first time since I had entered, I thought of Morhange. I did not answer. Antinea smiled.
They all become otherwise preoccupied. I might make many disclosures as to the little real importance which purely scientific interests possess even for scholars, and the quickness with which they sacrifice them to the most mundane considerations their own lives, for instance." "Let us take that up another time, sir, if it is satisfactory to you," said Morhange, always admirably polite.
"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.
That is to say that it contains the same word twice, top to bottom, and right to left. This arrangement which is unique in Tifinar writing, is already remarkable enough. But there is better still. Now we will read it." Getting it wrong three times out of seven I finally succeeded, with Morhange's help, in spelling the word. "Have you got it?" asked Morhange when I had finished my task.
"It is here," Eg-Anteouen replied slowly, rising to his feet. "Take us to it." "Morhange," I said, suddenly anxious, "night is falling. We will see nothing. And perhaps it is still some way off." "It is hardly five hundred paces," Eg-Anteouen replied. "The cave is full of dead underbrush. We will set it on fire and the Captain will see as in full daylight." "Come," my comrade repeated.
"Just like the others," the Professor replied, "just like Lieutenant Woodhouse, like Captain Deligne, like Major Russell, like Colonel von Wittman, like the forty-seven of yesterday and all those of to-morrow." "Of what did they die?" Morhange demanded imperatively in his turn. The Professor looked at Morhange. I saw my comrade grow pale. "Of what did they die, sir? They died of love."
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