There is probably no nation in the world more attached to religion, both
in form and principle, than the Osmanli; and it is probably for this
reason that their public ceremonies bear a stamp of vigor and sincerity
rarely equaled in Christian countries. No one can witness the rites
practiced in the mosque of Agia Sophia without being profoundly
impressed with the power of the Mohammedan faith. The famous church of
Justinian is indeed in itself magnificent and awe-inspiring; the vast
dome is more effective than that of Saint Peter's, in proportion as the
masses which support it are smaller and less apparent; the double
stories of the nave are less burdened with detail and ornament, and are
therefore better calculated to convey an impression of size; the view
from the galleries is less obstructed in all directions, and there is
something startling in the enormous shields of green inscribed in gold
with the names of God, Mohammed, and the earliest khalifs. Everything in
the building produces a sensation of smallness in the beholder, almost
amounting to stupor. But the Agia Sophia seen by day, in the company of
a chattering Greek guide, is one thing; it is quite another when viewed
at night from the solitude of the vast galleries, during the religious
ceremonies of the last week in the month Ramazan.
Paul and Alexander Patoff were driven through dark streets to a narrow
lane, where the carriage stopped before a flight of broad steps which
suddenly descended into blackness. The kavass was at the door, and
seemed anxious that they should be quick in their movements. He held a
small lantern in his hand, and, carrying it low down, showed them the
way. Entering a gloomy doorway, they were aware of a number of Turks,
clad mostly in white tunics, with white turbans, and congregated near
the heavy leathern curtain which separates this back entrance from the
portico. One of these men, a tall fellow with an ugly scowl, came
forward, holding a pair of keys in his hand, and after a moment's parley
with the kavass unlocked a heavily ironed door, lighting a taper at the
lantern.
As they entered, both the brothers cast a glance at the knot of scowling
men, and Alexander felt in his pocket for his pistol. He had forgotten
it, and the discovery did not tend to make him feel more safe. Then he
smiled to himself, recognizing that it was but a passing feeling of
distrust which he experienced, and remembering how many thousands of
Franks must have passed through that very door to reach the winding
staircase. As for Paul, he had been there the previous year, and was
accustomed to the sour looks of Mussulmans when a Frank visitor enters
one of their mosques. He also went in, and the kavass, who was the last
of the party, followed, pulling the door on its hinges behind him.
During several minutes they mounted the rough stone steps in silence, by
the dim light of the lantern and the taper. Then emerging into the
gallery through a narrow arch, a strange sound reached them, and
Alexander stood still for a moment.
Far down in the vast church an Imam was intoning a passage of the Koran
in a voice which hardly seemed human; indeed, such a sound is probably
not to be heard anywhere else in the world. The pitch was higher than
what is attainable by the highest men's voices elsewhere, and yet the
voice possessed the ringing, manly quality of the tenor, and its immense
volume never dwindled to the proportions of a soprano. The priest
recited and modulated in this extraordinary key, introducing all the
ornaments peculiar to the ancient Arabic chant with a facility which an
operatic singer might have envied. Then there was a moment's silence,
broken again almost immediately by a succession of heavy sounds which
can only be described as resembling rhythmical thunder, rising and
falling three times at equal intervals; another short but intense
silence, and again the voice burst out with the wild clang of a trumpet,
echoing and reverberating through the galleries and among the hundred
marble pillars of the vast temple.
The two brothers walked forward to the carved stone balustrade of the
high gallery, and gazed down from the height upon the scene below. The
multitude of worshipers surged like crested waves blown obliquely on a
shingly shore. For the apse of the Christian church is not built so
that, facing it, the true believer shall look towards Mecca, and the
Mussulmans have made their _mihrab_--their shrine--a little to the right
of what was once the altar, in the true direction of the sacred city.
The long lines of matting spread on the floor all lie evenly at an angle
with the axis of the nave, and when the mosque is full the whole
congregation, amounting to thousands of men, are drawn up like regiments
of soldiers in even ranks to face the mihrab, but not at right angles
with the nave. The effect is startling and strangely inharmonious, like
the studied distortions of some Japanese patterns, but yet fascinating
from its very contrariety to what the eye expects.
There they stand, the ranks of the faithful, as they have stood yearly
for centuries in the last week of Ramazan. As the trumpet notes of each
recited verse die away among the arches, every man raises his hands
above his head, then falls upon his knees, prostrates himself, and rises
again, renewing the act of homage three times with the precision of a
military evolution. At each prostration, performed exactly and
simultaneously by that countless multitude, the air is filled with the
tremendous roar of muffled rhythmical thunder, in which no voice is
heard, but only the motion of ten thousand human bodies, swaying,
bending, and kneeling in unison. Nor is the sound alone impressive. From
the vaulted roof, from the galleries, from the dome itself, are hung
hundreds of gigantic chandeliers, each having concentric rings of
lighted lamps, suspended a few feet above the heads of the worshipers.
Seen from the great height of the gallery, these thousands of lights do
not dazzle nor hide the multitude below, which seems too great to be
hidden, as the heavens are not hid by the stars; but the soft
illumination fills every corner and angle of the immense building, and,
lest any detail of the architecture and splendid music should escape the
light, rows of little lamps are kindled along the cornices of the
galleries and roof, filling up the interstices of darkness as a carver
burnishes the inner petals of the roses on a huge gilt frame of
exquisite design, in which not the smallest beauty of the workmanship
can be allowed to pass unnoticed.
This whole flood of glorious illumination descends then to the floor of
the nave, and envelops the ranks of white and green clothed men, who
rise and fall in long sloping lines, like a field of corn under the
slanting breeze. There is something mystic and awe-inspiring in the
sight, the sound, the whole condition, of this strange worship. A man
looks down upon the serried army of believers, closely packed, but not
crowded nor irregular, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee, not one of
them standing a hair's breadth in front of his rank nor behind it,
moving all as one body, animated by one principle of harmonious motion,
elevated by one unquestioning faith in something divine,--a man looks
down upon this scene, and, whatever be his own belief, he cannot but
feel an unwonted thrill of admiration, a tremor of awe, a quiver of
dread, at the grand solemnity of this unanimous worship of the unseen.
And then, as the movement ceases, and the files of white turbans remain
motionless, the unearthly voice of the Imam rings out like a battle
signal from the lofty balcony of the _mastaba_,[1] awaking in the
fervent spirits of the believers the warlike memories of mighty
conquest. For the Osmanli is a warrior, and his nation is a warrior
tribe; his belief is too simple for civilization, his courage too blind
and devoted for the military operations of our times, his heart too
easily roused by the bloodthirsty instincts of the fanatic, and too
ready to bear the misfortunes of life with the grave indifference of the
fatalist. He lacks the balance of the faculties which is imposed upon
civilized man by a conscious distinction of the possible from the
impossible; he lacks the capacity for being contented with that state of
life in which he is placed. Instead of the quiet courage and
self-knowledge of a serviceable strength, he possesses the reckless and
all-destroying zeal of the frenzied iconoclast; in place of patience
under misfortune, in the hope of better times, he cultivates the
insensibility begotten of a belief in hopeless predestination,--instead
of strength he has fury, instead of patience, apathy. He is a strange
being, beyond our understanding, as he is too often beyond our sympathy.
It is only when we see him roused to the highest expression of his
religious fervor that we involuntarily feel that thrill of astonishment
and awe which in our hearts we know to be genuine admiration.
[Note 1: The tribune, or marble platform, from which the prayers are
read; not to be confounded with the _minber_, or pulpit, from which the
Khatib preaches on Fridays, with a drawn sword in his hand.]
Alexander Patoff stood by his brother's side, watching the ceremony with
intense interest. He hated the Turks and despised their faith, but what
he now saw appealed to the Orientalism of his nature. Himself capable of
the most distant extremes of feeling, sensitive, passionate, and
accustomed to delight in strong impressions, he could not fail to be
moved by the profound solemnity of the scene and by the indescribable
wildness of the Imam's chant. Paul, too, was silent, and, though far
less able to feel such emotions than his elder brother, the sight of
such unanimous and heart-felt devotion called up strange trains of
thought in his mind, and forced him to speculate upon the qualities and
the character which still survived in these hereditary enemies of his
nation. It was not possible, he said to himself, that such men could
ever be really conquered. They might be driven from the capital of the
East by overwhelming force, but they would soon rally in greater numbers
on the Asian shore. They might be crushed for a moment, but they could
never be kept under, nor really dominated. Their religion might be
oppressed and condemned by the oppressor, but it was of the sort to gain
new strength at every fresh persecution. To slay such men was to sow
dragon's teeth and to reap a harvest of still more furious fanatics,
who, in their turn being destroyed, would multiply as the heads of the
Hydra beneath the blows of Heracles. The even rise and fall of those
long lines of stalwart Mussulmans seemed like the irrepressible tide of
an ocean, which if restrained, would soon break every barrier raised to
obstruct it. Paul sickened at the thought that these men were bowing
themselves upon the pavement from which their forefathers had washed the
dust of Christian feet in the blood of twenty thousand Christians, and
the sullen longing for vengeance rankled in his heart. At that moment he
wished he were a soldier, like his brother; he wished he could feel a
soldier's pride in the strong fellowship of the ranks, and a soldier's
hope of retaliation. He almost shuddered when he reflected that he and
his brother stood alone, two hated Russians, with that mighty,
rhythmically surging mass of enemies below. The bravest man might feel
his nerves a little shaken in such a place, at such an hour. Paul leaned
his chin upon his hand, and gazed intently down into the body of the
church. The armed kavass stood a few paces from him on his left, and
Alexander was leaning against a column on his right.
The kavass was a good Mussulman, and regarded the ceremony not only with
interest, but with a devotion akin to that of those who took part in it.
He also looked fixedly down, turning his eyes to the mihrab, and
listening attentively to the chanting of the Imam, of whose Arabic
recitation, however, he could not understand any more than Paul
himself. For a long time no one of the three spoke, nor indeed noticed
his companions.
"Shall we go to the other side of the gallery?" asked Paul, presently,
in a low voice, but without looking round. Alexander did not answer, but
the kavass moved, and uttered a low exclamation of surprise. Paul turned
his head to repeat his question, and saw that Alexander was no longer in
the place where he had been standing. He was nowhere to be seen.
"He is gone round the gallery alone," said Paul to the kavass, and
leading the way he went to the end of the balcony, and turning in the
shadow looked down the long gallery which runs parallel with the nave.
Alexander was not in sight, and Paul, supposing him to be hidden behind
one of the heavy pillars which divided the balustrade into equal
portions, walked rapidly to the end. But his brother was not there.
"Bah!" Paul exclaimed to the kavass, "he is on the other side." He
looked attentively at the opposite balconies, across the brilliantly
lighted church, but saw no one. He and the soldier retraced their steps,
and explored every corner of the galleries, without success. The kavass
was pale to the lips.
"He is gone down alone," he muttered, hastening to the head of the
winding stair in the northwest corner of the dim gallery. He had left
his lantern by the door, but it was not there. Alexander must have taken
it with him. The Turk with the keys and the taper had long since gone
down, in expectation of some other Frank visitors, but as yet none had
appeared. Paul breathed hard, for he knew that a stranger could not with
safety descend alone, on such a night, to the vestibule of the mosque,
filled as it was with turbaned Mussulmans who had not found room in the
interior, and who were pursuing their devotions before the great open
doors. On the other hand, if Alexander had not entered the vestibule, he
must have gone out into the street, where he would not be much safer,
for his hat proclaimed him a Frank to every party of strolling Turks he
chanced to meet.
Paul lit a wax taper from his case, and, holding others in readiness,
began to follow the rugged descent, the kavass close at his elbow. It
seemed interminable. At every deep embrasure Paul paused, searching the
recess by the flickering glare of the match, and then, finding nothing,
both men went on. At last they reached the bottom, and the heavy door
creaked as the kavass pressed it back.
"You must stay here," he said, in his broken jargon. "Or, better still,
you should go outside with me and get into the carriage. I will come
back and search."
"No," said Paul. "I will go with you. I am not afraid of them."
"You cannot," answered the kavass firmly. "I cannot protect you inside
the vestibule."
"I tell you I will go!" exclaimed Paul impatiently. "I do not expect you
to protect me. I will protect myself." But the kavass would not yield so
easily. He was a powerful man, and stood calmly in the doorway. Paul
could not pass him without using violence.
"Effendim," said the man, speaking Turkish, which he knew that Paul
understood, "if I let you go in there, and anything happens to you, my
life is forfeited."
Paul hesitated. The man was in earnest, and they were losing time which
might be precious. It was clear that Alexander might already be in
trouble, and that the kavass was the only person capable of imposing
respect upon the crowd.
"Go," said Paul. "I will wait by the carriage."
The kavass opened the door, and both men went out into the dim entry.
Paul turned to the right and the soldier to the left, towards the heavy
curtain which closed the entrance of the vestibule. The knot of Turks
who had stood there when the Russians had arrived had disappeared, and
the place was silent and deserted, while from behind the curtain faint
echoes of the priest's high voice were audible, and at intervals the
distant thundering roll from the church told that the worshipers were
prostrating themselves in the intervals of the chanting. Paul retired up
the dark way, but paused at the deserted gate, unwilling to go so far as
the carriage, and thus lengthen the time before the kavass could rejoin
him with his brother. He trembled lest Alexander should have given way
to some foolhardy impulse to enter the mosque in defiance of the
ceremony which was then proceeding, but it did not strike him that
anything very serious could have occurred, nor that the kavass would
really have any great difficulty in finding him. Alexander would
probably escape with some rough treatment, which might not be altogether
unprofitable, provided he sustained no serious injury. It was indeed a
rash and foolish thing to go alone and unarmed among a crowd of fanatic
Mohammedans at their devotions; but, after all, civilization had
progressed in Turkey, and the intruder was no longer liable to be torn
in pieces by the mob. He would most likely be forcibly ejected from the
vestibule, and left to repent of his folly in peace.
All these reflections passed through Paul's mind, as he stood waiting in
the shadow of the gate at the back of the mosque; but the time began to
seem unreasonably long, and his doubts presently took the shape of
positive fears. Still the echoes came to his ears through the heavy
curtain, while from without the distant hum of the city, given up to
gayety after the day's long fast, mingled discordantly with the sounds
from within. He was aware that his heart was beating faster than usual,
and that he was beginning to suffer the excitement of fear. He tried to
reason with himself, saying that it was foolish to make so much of so
little; but in the arguments of reason against terror, the latter
generally gets the advantage and keeps it. Paul had a strong desire to
follow the kavass into the vestibule, and to see for himself whether his
brother were there or not. He rarely carried weapons, as Alexander did,
but he trusted in his own strength to save him. He drew his watch from
his pocket, resolving to wait five minutes longer, and then, if the
kavass did not return, to lift the curtain, come what might. He struck a
match, and looked at the dial. It was a quarter past ten o'clock. Then,
to occupy his mind, he began to try and count the three hundred seconds,
fancying that he could see a pendulum swinging before his eyes in the
dark. At twenty minutes past ten he would go in.
But he did not reach the end of his counting. The curtain suddenly moved
a little, allowing a ray of bright light to fall out into the darkness,
and in the momentary flash Paul saw the gorgeous uniform and
accoutrements of the embassy kavass. He was alone, and Paul's heart
sank. He remembered very vividly the dark and scowling faces and the
fiery eyes of the turbaned men who had stood before the door an hour
earlier, and he began to fear some dreadful catastrophe. The kavass came
quickly forward, and Paul stepped out of the shadow and confronted him.
"Well?"
"He has not been there," answered the soldier, in agitated tones. "I
went all through the crowd, and searched everywhere. I asked many
persons. They laughed at the idea of a Frank gentleman in a hat
appearing amongst them. He must have gone out into the street."
"We searched the gallery thoroughly, did we not?" asked Paul. "Are you
sure he could not have been hidden somewhere?"
"Perfectly, Effendim. He is not there."
"Then we must look for him in the streets," said Paul, growing very
pale. He turned to ascend the steps from the gate to the road.
"It is not my fault, Effendim," answered the soldier. "Did you not see
him leave the gallery?"
"It is nobody's fault but his own," returned Patoff. "I was looking down
at the people. He must have slipped away like a cat."
They reached the carriage, and Paul got inside. It was a landau, and the
kavass and the coachman opened the front, so that Patoff might get a
better view of the streets. The kavass mounted the box, and explained to
the coachman that they must search Stamboul as far as possible for the
lost Effendi. But the coachman turned sharply round on his seat and
spoke to Paul.
"The gentleman did not come out," he said emphatically. "I have been
watching for you ever since you went in. He is inside the Agia
Sophia--somewhere."
Paul was disconcerted. He had not thought of making inquiries of the
coachman, supposing that Alexander might easily have slipped past in the
darkness. But the man seemed very positive.
"Wait in the carriage, Effendim," said the kavass, once more descending
from his seat. "If he is inside I will find him. I will search the
galleries again. He cannot have gone through the vestibule."
Before Paul could answer him the man had plunged once more down the
black steps, and the Russian was condemned a second time to a long
suspense, during which he was frequently tempted to leave the carriage
and explore the church for himself. He felt the cold perspiration on his
brow, and his hand trembled as he took out his watch again and again. It
was nearly a quarter of an hour before the kavass returned. The man was
now very pale, and seemed as much distressed as Paul himself. He
silently shook his head, and, mounting to the box seat, ordered the
coachman to drive on.
The city was ablaze with lights. Every mosque was illuminated, and the
minarets, decked out with thousands of little lamps, looked like fiery
needles piercing the black bosom of the sky. The carriage drove from
place to place, passing where a crowd was gathered together, hastening
down dark and deserted streets, to emerge again upon some brilliantly
lighted square, thronged with men in fez and turban and with women
veiled in the eternal yashmak. More than once Paul started in his seat,
fancying that he could discover on the borders of the crowd the two
ladies, with their attendant, who had been the cause of the scuffle in
the Valley of Roses that afternoon. Again, he thought he could
distinguish his brother's features among the moving faces, but always
the sight of the dark red fez told him that he was wrong. He was driven
round Agia Sophia, beneath the splendid festoons of lamps, some hung so
as to form huge Arabic letters, some merely bound together in great
ropes of light; back towards the water and through the Atmaidam, the
ancient Hippodrome, down to the Serai point, then up to the Seraskierat,
where the glorious tower shot upwards like the pillar of flame that went
before the Israelites of old; on to the mosque of Suleiman, over whose
tomb the great dome burned like a fiery mountain, round once more to the
Atmaidam, past the tall trees amidst which blazed the six minarets of
Sultan Achmet; then, trying a new route, down by the bazaar gates to
Sultan Valide and the head of Galata bridge, and at last back again to
the Seraskierat, and, leaving the Dove Mosque of Bajazet on the right,
once more to the Vinegar Sellers' Landing, in the vain hope that
Alexander might have found his way down to the quay where the steam
launch was moored.
In vain did the terrified kavass bid the coachman turn and turn again;
in vain did Paul, in agonized excitement, try to pierce the darkness
with his eyes, and to distinguish the well-known face in the throngs
that crowded the brightly lighted squares. At the end of two hours he
began to realize the hopelessness of the search. Suddenly it struck him
that Alexander might have found the bridge, and, recognizing it, might
have crossed to Pera rather than run the risk of losing himself in
Stamboul again.
"Tell the launch to be at Beschik Tasch to-morrow morning at ten
o'clock," said Paul. "Take me to Galata bridge. I will cross on foot to
Pera. Then go back and wait behind Agia Sophia, in case he comes that
way again to look for the carriage. If I find him in Pera, I will send a
messenger to tell you. If he does not come, meet me at Missiri's early
to-morrow morning."
"Pek eyi--very good," answered the kavass, who understood the wisdom of
the plan. Again the carriage turned, and in five minutes Paul was
crossing Galata bridge, alone, on his way to Pera.
He was terribly agitated. Stories of the disappearance of foreigners in
the labyrinths of Stamboul rose to his mind, and though he had never
known of such a case in his own experience, he did not believe the thing
impossible. His brother was the rashest and most foolhardy of men,
capable of risking his life for a mere caprice, and perhaps the more
inclined to do so on that night because he had had a violent quarrel
with Paul that very afternoon, about his own foolish conduct. Of all
nights in the year, the last four or five of Ramazan are the most
dangerous to unprotected foreigners, and as he walked the spectacle of
the scowling Turks thrust itself once more before Paul's mental vision.
If Alexander had descended the steps, and had ventured, as well he
might, to push past those fellows into the vestibule of the mosque, it
must have gone hard with him. The fanatic worshipers of Allah were not
in a mood that night to bear with the capricious humors of a haughty
Frank; and though Alexander was active, strong, and brave, his strength
would avail him little against such odds. He would be overpowered,
stunned, and thrown out before he could utter a cry, and he might think
himself lucky if he escaped with one or two broken bones. But then,
again, if he had suffered such treatment, some one must have heard of
it, and Paul remembered the blank face and frightened look of the kavass
when he returned the second time from his search. They had gone
carefully round the great building, and must have seen such an object as
the body of a man lying in the street. Perhaps Alexander had broken away
without injury, and fled out into the streets of Stamboul. If so, he
was in no common danger, for, utterly ignorant of the topography of the
great city, he might as easily have gone towards the Seven Towers or to
Aiwan Serai as to Galata bridge or Topkapussi, the Canon Gate at Serai
point. There was still one hope left. He might have reached Pera, and be
at that very moment refreshing himself with coffee and cigarettes at
Missiri's hotel.
Paul hastened his walk, and, reaching Galata, began at once to ascend
the steep street which further on is called the Grande Rue, but which of
all "great" streets least deserves the name. He then walked slowly,
scrutinizing every face he saw. But indeed there were few people about,
for Christian Pera does not fast in Ramazan, and consequently does not
spend the night in parading the streets. Nevertheless, Paul began a
systematic search, leaving no small cafe or eating-house unvisited,
rousing the sleepy porters of the inns with his inquiries, and finally
entering the hotel. It was now past midnight, but he would not give up
the quest. He caused all the guides to be collected from their obscure
habitations by messengers from the hotel, and representing to them the
urgency of the case, and giving them money in advance with the promise
of more to come, he dispatched them in all directions. Alexander had
been at the hotel very often during the last month, while visiting the
sights of the city, and most of these fellows knew him by sight. At all
events, it would be easy for them to recognize a well-dressed Frank
gentleman in trouble.
Patoff saw the last of them leave the hotel, and stood staring out upon
the Grande Rue de Pera, wondering what should be done next. The town
residence of the embassy was closed for the summer, and there were only
two or three sleepy servants in the place, who could be of no use. He
thought of getting a horse and riding rapidly back to Buyukdere, in
order to warn the ambassador of his brother's disappearance; but on
reflection it seemed that he would do better to stay where he was. The
short June night would soon be past, and by daylight he could at once
prosecute his search in Stamboul with safety and with far greater
probability of finding the lost man. He knew that the kavass would
remain with the carriage all night behind Santa Sophia, and then at dawn
he should still find them there. Meanwhile, he took a _hamal_,--a
luggage porter from the hotel,--and, armed with a lantern and a stick,
began to beat the different quarters of Pera, judging that in the three
or four hours before daylight he could pass through most of the streets.
Hour after hour he trudged along, pale with fatigue and anxiety, his big
features hardening with despairing determination as he walked. He
searched every street and alley; he interviewed the Bekjees, who stamp
along the streets, pounding the pavement with their iron-shod clubs; he
tramped out to the Taksim, and down again to Galata tower, plunging into
the dark alleys about the Oriental Bank, skirting lower Pera to the
Austrian embassy, and climbing up the narrow path between tall houses,
till he was once more in the Grande Rue; crossing to the filthy quarters
of Kassim Pascha and emerging at the German Lutheran church, crossing,
recrossing, stumbling over gutters and up dirty back lanes, silent and
determined still, addressing only the sturdy Kurd by his side to ask if
there were any streets still unexplored, and entering every new by-path
with new hope. At last he found himself once more at Galata bridge, and
the light of the lantern began to pale before the grayness of the coming
morning. He paid the Kurdish porter a generous fee, and giving his tiny
coin to the tall keeper of the bridge, whose white garments looked
whiter in the dawn, he walked on until he was half way over the Golden
Horn.
Stepping aside on to the wooden pier where the great ferry-boats were
moored, he leaned upon the rail and looked out over the water,
momentarily exhausted and unable to go further. The tender light tinged
the southeastern sky, and the far mist of the horizon seemed already hot
with the rising day. On the lapping water of the Horn the light fell
like petals of roses tossed in a mantle of some soft dark fabric
interwoven with a silvery sheen. Far across the mouth of the Bosphorus
the minarets of Scutari came faintly into view, and on the Stamboul side
the few lingering lamps which had outlasted the darkness, upon the lofty
minarets, paled and lost their yellow color, and then ceased to shine,
outdone in their turn by the rosy morning light. A wonderful stillness
had fallen on the great city, as one by one the tired parties of friends
had gone to rest, to shorten the day of fasting by prolonging their
sleep till late in the hot afternoon. The clank of some capstan on one
of the ferry-boats struck loud and clear on the still air, as the
reluctant sailors and firemen prepared for their first run to the Black
Sea, or across to Kadi Koei on the Sea of Marmara. Paul turned and looked
towards the mighty dome of Santa Sophia, and his haggard face was almost
as pale as the white walls. He lingered still, and suddenly the sun
sprang up behind the Serai, and gilded the delicate spires, and caught
the gold of the crescents on the mosques, and shone full upon the broad
water. Paul followed the light as it touched one glorious building after
another, and his hand trembled convulsively on the railing. Somewhere in
that great awakening city--his brother was somewhere, alive or dead,
amongst those white walls and glittering crescents and towering
minarets--somewhere, and he must be found. Paul bent his head, and
turning away hurried across the bridge, and plunged once more into
Stamboul, alone as he had come.
The streets were deserted, and the early morning air was full of the
smell of thousands of extinguished oil lamps, that peculiar and
pervading odor which suggests past revelry, sleepless hours, and the
vanity of turning night into day. It oppressed Paul's overwrought
senses, as he passed the melancholy remains of the illumination before
the post-office and the Sultan Valide mosque, and he hurried on towards
the more secluded streets leading to Santa Sophia, in which the night's
gayety had left no perceptible signs. At last he came to the narrow lane
behind the huge pile, feeling that he had at last reached the end of his
five hours' tramp.
There stood the carriage, all dusty with the night's driving, looking
dilapidated and forlorn; the tired horses drooped their heads in the
flaccid and empty canvas nose-bags. The extinguished lamps were black
with the smoke from the last flare of their sputtering wicks. The
coachman lay inside, snoring,--a mere heap of cloth and brass buttons
surmounted by a shapeless fez. On the stone steps leading down to the
church sat the kavass; his head had fallen on the low parapet behind
him, and his half-shaved scalp was bare. His face was deadly pale, and
his mouth was wide open as he slept, breathing heavily; his left hand
rested on the hilt of his scimiter; his right was extended, palm
upwards, on the stone step on which he sat, the very picture of
exhaustion.
At any other time Paul would have laughed at the scene. But he was very
far from mirth now, as he bent down and laid his hand upon the sleeping
kavass's shoulder.