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,