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"Yes, it's a good one," I repeated, bursting into laughter. Eg-Anteouen quietly smiled approval. The dying fire lit his inscrutable face and flickered in his terrible dark eyes. A moment passed. Suddenly Morhange seized the Targa's arm. "I want to smoke, too," he said. "Give me a pipe." The specter gave him one. "What! A European pipe?" "A European pipe," I repeated, feeling gayer and gayer.
I seized the Targa's arm as he was starting to intone his refrain for the third time. "When will we reach this cave with the inscriptions?" I asked brusquely. He looked at me and replied with his usual calm: "We are there." "We are there? Then why don't you show it to us?" "You did not ask me," he replied, not without a touch of insolence. Morhange had jumped to his feet. "The cave is here?"
Chêt-Ahadh essa hetîsenet Mâteredjrê d'Erredjaot, Mâtesekek d-Essekâot, Mâtelahrlahr d'Ellerhâot, Ettâs djenen, barâd tît-ennit abâtet. Eg-Anteouen's voice raised itself in slow guttural tones. It resounded with sad, grave majesty in the silence now complete. I touched the Targa's arm. With a movement of his head, he pointed to a constellation glittering in the firmament.
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