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 m