parallel aisles. There is
no light save that which comes through the arcade opening into the
courtyard, and it is so dark in the aisles at the far end that we wonder
again how the faithful can see to read when the sun of Egypt happens to
be veiled.

Some score of students, who seem almost lost in the vast solitude, still
remain during the hour of rest, and are busy sweeping the floor with
long palms made into a kind of broom. These are the poor students, whose
only meal is of dry bread, and who at night stretch themselves to sleep
on the same mat on which they have sat studying during the day.

The residence at the university is free to all the scholars, the cost of
their education and maintenance being provided by pious donations. But,
inasmuch as the bequests are restricted according to nationality, there
is necessarily inequality in the treatment doled out to the different
students: thus the young men of a given country may be almost rich,
possessing a room and a good bed; while those of a neighbouring country
must sleep on the ground and have barely enough to keep body and soul
together. But none of them complain, and they know how to help one
another.[*]

[*] The duration of the studies at El-Azhar varies from
three to six years.

Near to us, one of these needy students is eating, without any false
shame, his midday meal of dry bread; and he welcomes with a smile the
sparrows and the other little winged thieves who come to dispute with
him the crumbs of his repast. And farther down, in the dimly lighted
vaults at the end, is one who disdains to eat, or who, maybe, has no
bread; who, when his sweeping is done, reseats himself on his mat,
and, opening his Koran, commences to read aloud with the customary
intonation. His voice, rich and facile, and moderated with discretion,
has a charm that is irresistible in the sonorous old mosque, where at
this hour the only other sound is the scarcely perceptible twittering of
the little broods above, among the dull gold beams of the ceiling. Those
who have been familiar with the sanctuaries of Islam know, as well as I,
that there is no book so exquisitely rhythmical as that of the Prophet.
Even if the sense of the verses escape you, the chanted reading, which
forms part of certain of the offices, acts upon you by the simple magic
of its sounds, in the same way as the oratorios which draw tears in
the churches of Christ. Rising and falling like some sad lullaby, th