your associates, why not do so now. The quicker the better.
Come, make up your mind. And we’ll not wait for the morning train. We’ll leave for Baalbek in a special carriage this afternoon. What say you?”
Just then the brass band in front of the Hotel struck up the Dustur march in honour of the Sheikhs who come to escort the Unionist Deputies and the speaker to the Mosque.
“I have made up my mind. I have given my word.”
And being called, Mrs. Gotfry, though loath to let him go, presses his hand and wishes him good speed.
And here we are in the carriage on the right of the green-turbaned Sheikh. We look disdainfully on the troops, the brass band, and the crowd of nondescripts that are leading the procession.
We cross the bridge, pass the Town-Hall, and, winding a narrow street groaning with an electric tramway, we come to the grand arcade in which the multitudes on both sides are pressed against the walls and into the stalls by the bullying Dragoons.
We drive through until we reach the arch, where some Caliph of the Umayyas used to take the air. And descending from the carriage, we walk a few paces between two rows of bookshops, and here we are in the court of the grand Mosque Umayya.
We elbow our way through the pressing, distressing multitudes, following Ahmed Bey into the Mosque, while the Army Officer mounts a platform in the court and dispenses to the crowd there of his Turkish blatherskite. We stand in the Mosque near the heavy tapestried square which is said to be the sarcophagus of St. John. Already a Sheikh is in the pulpit preaching on the excellences of liberty, chopping out definitions