I hear a step outside. It is Cegheir-ben-Cheikh, our Targa guide, the man who in three days is to lead us across the unknown plateaus of the mysterious Imoschaoch. The lamp casts a yellow light on the paper. Strange fate, which, I never knew exactly why, decided one day when I was a lad of sixteen that I should prepare myself for Saint Cyr, and gave me there Andre de Saint-Avit as classmate. A great insect has flown in through the window. It is an African May bug, big, black, with spots of livid grey. What has been capable of causing this metamorphosis in me? A story, a legend, perhaps, told, at any rate by one on whom rests the direst of suspicions. Our departure being scheduled for the tenth of November. Olivier Ferrieres

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