pathos to be profound. The secret understanding of the heart! He repeated the phrase with tears in his eyes, and as he did so one of the pillars of the mosque seemed to quiver. It swayed in the gloom and detached itself. Belief in ghosts ran in his blood, but he sat firm. Another pillar moved, a third, and then an Englishwoman stepped out into the moonlight. Suddenly he was furiously angry and shouted: "Madam! Madam! Madam!"
"Oh! Oh!" the woman gasped.
"Madam, this is a mosque, you have no right here at all; you should have taken off your shoes; this is a holy place for Moslems."
"I have taken them off."
"You have?"
"I left them at the entrance."
"Then I ask your pardon."
Still startled, the woman moved out, keeping the ablution-tank between them. He called after her, "I am truly sorry for speaking."
"Yes, I was right, was I not? If I remove my shoes, I am allowed?"
"Of course, but so few ladies take the trouble, especially if thinking no one is there to see."
"That makes no difference. God is here."
"Madam!"
"Please let me go."
"Oh, can I do you some service now or at any time?"
"No, thank you, really none—good night."
"May I know your name?"
She was now in the shadow of the gateway, so that he could not see her face, but she saw his, and she said with a change of voice, "Mrs. Moore."
"Mrs." Advancing, he found that she was old. A fabric bigger than the mosque fell to pieces, and he did not know whether he was glad or sorry. She was older than Hamidullah Begum, with a red face and white hair. Her voice had deceived him.
