t 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
smoke blinded us.

Eg-Anteouen stayed at one side of the opening of the cave. He was
seated and, more inscrutible than ever, had begun again to blow great
puffs of gray smoke from his pipe.

The burning brush cast a flickering light. I caught a glimpse of
Morhange. He seemed very pale. With both hands braced against the
wall, he was working to decipher a mass of signs which I could
scarcely distinguish.

Nevertheless, I thought I could see his hands trembling.

"The devil," I thought, finding it more and more difficult to
co-ordinate my thoughts, "he seems to be as unstrung as I."

I heard him call out to Eg-Anteouen in what seemed to me a loud voice:

"Stand to one side. Let the air in. What a smoke!"

He kept on working at the signs.

Suddenly I heard him again, but with difficulty. It seemed as if even
sounds were confused in the smoke.

"Antinea ... At last ... Antinea. But not cut in the rock ... the
marks traced in ochre ... not ten years old, perhaps not five....
Oh!...."

He pressed his hands to his head. Again he cried out:

"It is a mystery. A tragic mystery."

I laughed teasingly.

"Come on, come on. Don't get excited over it."

He took me by the arm and shook me. I saw his eyes big with terror and
astonishment.

"Are you mad?" he yelled in my face.

"Not so loud," I replied with the same little laugh.

He looked at me again, and sank down, overcome, on a rock opposite me.
Eg-Anteouen was still smoking placidly at the mouth of the cave. We
could see the red circle of his pipe glowing in the darkness.

"Madman! Madman!" repeated Morhange. His voice seemed to stick in his
throat.

Suddenly he bent over the brush which was giving its last darts of
flame, high and clear. He picked out a branch which had not yet
caught. I saw him examine it carefully, then throw it bac