“Do you think I might sing?” I asked. “It would be interesting to know how far the voice carries at this height.”
“As you please,” he answered; but as it was clear that he was decidedly embarrassed, if not shocked, I contented myself with quietly humming Gloria in Excelsis. When I told him the words—“On earth peace, to men of goodwill,” he answered, reverently, “Inch Allah.”
“You see,” I explained, “the muezzin calls the faithful to prayer, I call them to peace.”
As, perhaps, I ought to have foreseen, it proved a far more difficult business to get down those steps than it had been to climb up. Somehow the walls seemed closing in upon me, and the mere idea of starting upon the descent brought on a fit of unmanageable giddiness. My guide promptly offered to carry me, but I did not believe it could be done; and, in any case, I should not wish him to make the attempt. When I have plucked up courage to trust my own feet, they are constantly slipping over the worn stones, and often we find three or four missing altogether; still it would not be possible to jump.
“I am only just in front of you,” said my guide, “if you fall, you will fall on me.”
I ought to have been thoroughly ashamed of myself, but I could only say, “You must let me manage my own way and slide down as best I can.”
I am perfectly comfortable in an aeroplane at an altitude of 10,000 feet; and to this day I have never been able to understand why that minaret made me so giddy.
We visited the tombs of Osman and many of the other Sultans buried in Broussa, the ancient capital of Turkey. The idea of the continual watching of the tomb, and, indeed, the whole attitude of Islam towards death, is full of beauty. One does not wish to believe that the Greeks marched up to this Holy Place with drawn swords, cursing the founder of the Osman Dynasty.
We also drove to the famous Green Mosque, immortalised by Pierre Loti. The actual colour of this fine building is a most wonderful turquoise blue; but, like those jewels, it may, indeed, one day grow green with age. Here Pierre Loti used to write his books, reclining on the magnificent carpets, of which the quality and beauty have defied time itself. On one side stands the large door (replacing the altar) of exquisitely blended green porcelain and delicate gold lettering; on the other, the cool and sparkling fountain. All day long he worked in this hallowed atmosphere; where the invisible mouths of the fountain send out a gorgeous mass of rainbow-hued spray into the sun’s white rays.