eudal stronghold silhouetted with incredible sharpness
against the orange sky.

There was a well, with several trees, the first we had seen since
cutting into Ahaggar.

A group of men were standing about it. Their camels, tethered close
by, were cropping a mouthful here and there.

At seeing us, the men drew together, alert, on the defensive.

Eg-Anteouen turned to us and said:

"Eggali Tuareg."

We went toward them.

They were handsome men, those Eggali, the largest Tuareg whom I ever
have seen. With unexpected swiftness they drew aside from the well,
leaving it to us. Eg-Anteouen spoke a few words to them. They looked
at Morhange and me with a curiosity bordering on fear, but at any
rate, with respect.

I drew several little presents from my saddlebags and was astonished
at the reserve of the chief, who refused them. He seemed afraid even
of my glance.

When they had gone, I expressed my astonishment at this shyness for
which my previous experiences with the tribes of the Sahara had not
prepared me.

"They spoke with respect, even with fear," I said to Eg-Anteouen. "And
yet the tribe of the Eggali is noble. And that of the Kel-Tahats, to
which you tell me you belong, is a slave tribe."

A smile lighted the dark eyes of Eg-Anteouen.

"It is true," he said.

"Well then?"

"I told them that we three, the Captain, you and I, were bound for the
Mountain of the Evil Spirits."

With a gesture, he indicated the black mountain.

"They are afraid. All the Tuareg of Ahaggar are afraid of the Mountain
of the Evil Spirits. You saw how they were up and off at the very
mention of its name."

"It is to the Mountain of the Evil Spirits that you are taking us?"
queried Morhange.

"Yes," replied the Targa, "that is where the inscriptions are that I
told you about."

"You did not mention that detail to us."

"Why should I? The Tuareg are afraid of the _ilhinen,_ spirits with
horns and tails, covered with hair, who make the cattle sicken and die
and cast spells over men. But I know well that the Christians are not
afraid and even laugh at the fears of the Tuareg."

"And you?" I asked. "You are a Targa and you are not afraid of the
_ilhinen_?"

Eg-Anteouen showed a little red leather bag hung about his neck on a
chain of white seeds.

"I have my amulet," he replied gravely, "blessed by the venerable
Sidi-Moussa himself. And then I am with you. You saved my life. You
have desired to see the inscriptions. Th