“Tell him,” resumed the stranger, “tell him that I have never seen people pray with such fervor! To me it seemed as if it was the sublime beauty of this marvellous structure which created this atmosphere of ecstasy. Verily this is still an Islam bulwark! This is the home of devoutness! From this great mosque emanate the faith and enthusiasm which make Islam a mighty power.”
Here he paused again, noting carefully Mesullam’s play of features during its interpretation. Not a trace of interest was discernible in them. But the stranger was evidently a man who liked to hear himself talk. His own words intoxicated him; he would have become ill-natured had he not been allowed to proceed.
“Well,” said he, when it was his turn again to speak, “I cannot rightly explain what happened to me. Possibly the faint odor from the hundreds of oil lamps, together with the low murmurings of the devotees, lulled me into a kind of stupefaction. I could not help but close my eyes as I stood leaning against a pillar. Soon sleep, or rather insensibility, overcame me. Probably it did not last more than a minute, but during this interval I was entirely removed from reality. While in this trance I could see the whole Sophia Mosque before me, with all the praying people; but now I saw what I had not hitherto observed. Up in the dome were scaffoldings, and on these stood a number of workmen with paint pots and brushes.
“Tell him, if he does not already know it,” continued the narrator, “that Sophia Mosque was once a Christian church, and that its arches and dome are covered with sacred Christian mosaics, although the Turks have painted out all these pictures with plain yellow paint. And it appeared to me as if the yellow paint in the dome had peeled off in a couple of places and that the painters had clambered up on the scaffolding to touch up the picture. But, look! when one of them raised his brush to fill in the color, another large piece scaled off, and suddenly one saw from behind it a beautiful painting of the Christ emerge. Again the painter raised his arm to paint out the picture, but the arm, which appeared to be numb and powerless, dropped down before this beautiful face; at the same time the paint dropped from the entire dome and arch, and Christ was visible there in all his glory, among angels and heavenly hosts. Then the painter cried out, and all the worshippers down on the floor of the mosque raised their heads. And when they saw the heavenly hosts surrounding the Saviour, they sent up a cry of joy, and when I witnessed this joy, I was seized with such strong emotion that I waked instantly. Then everything was like itself. The mosaics were hidden under the yellow paint and the devotees continued all the while to invoke Allah.”
When the interpreter had translated this, Mesullam opened one eye and regarded the stranger. He saw a man who he thought resembled all other Occidentals that wandered through the mosque. “I don’t believe the pale-faced stranger has seen any visions,” thought he. “He has not the dark eyes that can see what is behind the veil of mystery. I think, rather, that he came here to make sport of me. I must beware lest on this accursed day I be overtaken by another humiliation.”
The stranger spoke anon: “You know, O Dream Interpreter!” turning now direct to Mesullam, as if he thought that he could understand him, despite his foreign tongue—“you know that a distinguished foreigner is visiting Jerusalem at present, and on his account they have talked of opening the walled-up gate in Jerusalem’s ring-wall—the one they call ‘the Golden’ and which is believed to be the gate through which Jesus rode into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. They have actually been thinking of doing the distinguished traveller the honor of letting him ride into the city through a gate which has been walled up for centuries; but they were held back by an old prophecy which foretells that when this gate is opened the Occidentals will march in through it to take possession of Jerusalem.
“And now you shall hear what happened to me last night. The weather was superb; it was glorious moonlight, and I had gone out alone to take a quiet promenade around the Holy City. I walked outside the ring-wall on the narrow path that extends all round the wall, and my thoughts were borne so far back into distant ages that I scarcely remembered where I was. All of a sudden I began to feel tired. I wondered if I should not soon come to a gate in the wall, through which I might get into the city and thus return to my quarters by a shorter road. Well, just as I was thinking of this, I saw a man open a large gate in the wall directly in front of me. He opened it wide and beckoned to me that I might pass in through it. I was absorbed in my dreams and hardly knew how far I had been walking. I was somewhat surprised that there was a gate here, but I thought no more about the matter and walked through it. As soon as I had passed through the deep archway, the gate closed with a sharp clang. When I turned round, there was no opening visible, only a walled-up gate—the one called the Golden. Before me lay the temple place, the broad Haram plateau, in the centre of which Omar’s Mosque is enthroned. And you know that no gate in the ring-wall leads thither but the Golden, which is not only closed but walled up.
“You can understand that I thought I’d gone mad; that I
