we shall start, he and I. We shall leave the bordj. We
shall penetrate far down there to the South. The official orders came
this morning.

Now, even if I wished to withdraw, it is too late. Andre and I asked
for this mission. The authorization that I sought, together with him,
has at this moment become an order. The hierarchic channels cleared,
the pressure brought to bear at the Ministry;--and then to be afraid,
to recoil before this adventure!...

To be afraid, I said. I know that I am not afraid! One night in the
Gurara, when I found two of my sentinels slaughtered, with the
shameful cross cut of the Berbers slashed across their stomachs--then
I was afraid. I know what fear is. Just so now, when I gazed into the
black depths, whence suddenly all at once the great red sun will rise,
I know that it is not with fear that I tremble. I feel surging within
me the sacred horror of this mystery, and its irresistible attraction.

Delirious dreams, perhaps. The mad imaginings of a brain surcharged,
and an eye distraught by mirages. The day will come, doubtless, when I
shall reread these pages with an indulgent smile, as a man of fifty is
accustomed to smile when he rereads old letters.

Delirious dreams. Mad imaginings. But these dreams, these imaginings,
are dear to me. "Captain de Saint-Avit and Lieutenant Ferrieres,"
reads the official dispatch, "will proceed to Tassili to determine the
statigraphic relation of Albien sandstone and carboniferous limestone.
They will, in addition, profit by any opportunities of determining the
possible change of attitude of the Axdjers towards our penetration,
etc." If the journey should indeed have to do only with such poor
things I think that I should never undertake it.

So I am longing for what I dread. I shall be dejected if I do not
find myself in the presence of what makes me strangely fearful.

In the depths of the valley of Wadi Mia a jackal is barking. Now and
again, when a beam of moonlight breaks in a silver patch through the
hollows of the heat-swollen clouds, making him think he sees the young
sun, a turtle dove moans among the palm trees.

I hear a step outside. I lean out of the window. A shade clad in
luminous black stuff glides over the hard-packed earth of the terrace
of the fortification. A light shines in the electric blackness. A man
has just lighted a cigarette. He crouches, facing southwards. He is
smoking.

It is Cegheir-ben-Cheikh, our Targa guide, the man