My dinner was brought, and all the time I was eating my shashleek (bits of lamb roasted on a skewer over charcoal) I listened to an unearthly hubbub of bands—or of fire hooters, I could not tell which. Every ten minutes there was an awesome silence, and then there outbroke the blast of a horn, three times repeated, that sounded like the trump of doom, terumm, terumm, terumm; then came the sound of bagpipes and a throbbing of many drums, the horns breaking through the lesser music at intervals and lifting the roof of the sky. This was an appalling accompaniment to my meal. I had never heard anything like the sound of that horn:
Terum—m—m,
Terum—m—m,
Terum—m—m.
It was like the blast
Of that dread horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne,
Which to King Charles did come,
When Roland brave and Olivier,
And every paladin and peer,