It was Tanit-Zerga who spoke first.
"How far are we from the Soudan road?" she asked.
"We are a hundred and twenty miles from the springs of Telemsi," I
replied. "We could make thirty miles by going toward Iferouane; but
the wells are not marked on that route."
"Then we must walk toward the springs of Telemsi," she said. "A
hundred and twenty miles, that makes seven days?"
"Seven days at the least, Tanit-Zerga."
"How far is it to the first well?"
"Thirty-five miles."
The little girl's face contracted somewhat. But she braced up quickly.
"We must set out at once."
"Set out on foot, Tanit-Zerga!"
She stamped her foot. I marveled to see her so strong.
"We must go," she repeated. "We are going to eat and drink and make
Galé eat and drink, for we cannot carry all the tins, and the water
skin is so heavy that we should not get three miles if we tried to
carry it. We will put a little water in one of the tins after emptying
it through a little hole. That will be enough for to-night's stage,
which will be eighteen miles without water. To-morrow we will set out
for another eighteen miles and we will reach the wells marked on the
paper by Ceghéir-ben-Cheikh."
"Oh," I murmured sadly, "if my shoulder were only not this way, I
could carry the water skin."
"It is as it is," said Tanit-Zerga.
"You will take your carbine and two tins of meat. I shall take two
more and the one filled with water. Come. We must leave in an hour if
we wish to cover the eighteen miles. You know that when the sun is up,
the rocks are so hot we cannot walk."
I leave you to imagine in what sad silence we passed that hour which
we had begun so happily and confidently. Without the little girl, I
believe I should have seated myself upon a rock and waited. Galé only
was happy.
"We must not let her eat too much," said Tanit-Zerga. "She would not
be able to follow us. And to-morrow she must work. If she catches
another ourane, it will be for us."
You have walked in the desert. You know how terrible the first hours
of the night are. When the moon comes up, huge and yellow, a sharp
dust seems to rise in suffocating clouds. You move your jaws
mechanically as if to crush the dust that finds its way into your
throat like fire. Then usually a kind of lassitude, of drowsiness,
follows. You walk without thinking. You forget where you are walking.
You remember only when you stumble. Of course you stumble often. But
anyway it is bearable. "The night is ending," you say, "and with it
the march. All in all, I am less tired than at the beginning." The
night ends, but then comes the most terrible hour of all. You are
perishing of thirst and shaking with cold. All the fatigue comes back
at once. The horrible breeze which precedes the dawn is no comfort.
Quite the contrary. Every time you stumble, you say, "The next misstep
will be the last."