counted them, arranged them; then, casting a peevish glance at us, he
struck a copper gong.

The portiere was raised again. A huge white Targa entered. I seemed to
recognize him as one of the genii of the cave.[8]

[Footnote 8: The Negro serfs among the Tuareg are generally called
"white Tuareg." While the nobles are clad in blue cotton robes, the
serfs wear white robes, hence their name of "white Tuareg." See, in
this connection, Duveyrier: _les Tuareg du Nord_, page 292. (Note by
M. Leroux.)]

"Ferradji," angrily demanded the little officer of the Department of
Education, "why were these gentlemen brought into the library?"

The Targa bowed respectfully.

"Cegheir-ben-Cheikh came back sooner than we expected," he replied,
"and last night the embalmers had not yet finished. They brought them
here in the meantime," and he pointed to us.

"Very well, you may go," snapped the little man.

Ferradji backed toward the door. On the threshold, he stopped and
spoke again:

"I was to remind you, sir, that dinner is served."

"All right. Go along."

And the little man seated himself at the desk and began to finger the
papers feverishly.

I do not know why, but a mad feeling of exasperation seized me. I
walked toward him.

"Sir," I said, "my friend and I do not know where we are nor who you
are. We can see only that you are French, since you are wearing one of
the highest honorary decorations of our country. You may have made the
same observation on your part," I added, indicating the slender red
ribbon which I wore on my vest.

He looked at me in contemptuous surprise.

"Well, sir?"

"Well, sir, the Negro who just went out pronounced the name of
Cegheir-ben-Cheikh, the name of a brigand, a bandit, one of the
assassins of Colonel Flatters. Are you acquainted with that detail,
sir?"

The little man surveyed me coldly and shrugged his shoulders.

"Certainly. But what difference do you suppose that makes to me?"

"What!" I cried, beside myself with rage. "Who are you, anyway?"

"Sir," said the little old man with comical dignity, turning to
Morhange, "I call you to witness the strange manners of your
companion. I am here in my own house and I do not allow...."

"You must excuse my comrade, sir," said Morhange, stepping forward.
"He is not a man of letters, as you are. These young lieutenants are
hot-headed, you know. And besides, you can understand why both of us
are not as calm as might be desired."

I