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Out of these memory-pictures of Damascus I choose three. The Lady and I are climbing up from the great Mosque of the Ommayyades into the Minaret of the Bride, at the hour of 'Asr, or afternoon prayer. As we tread the worn spiral steps in the darkness we hear, far above, the chant of the choir of muezzins, high-pitched, long-drawn, infinitely melancholy, calling the faithful to their devotions.
Allah will have his way." "But my men are afraid." "I will place a drop of sweetened water on their lips, and bring them safe through, though they are dying. Tell them as much." The Shaykh was departing when the Prince, shrewdly suspecting it was he who feared, called him back. "How call ye the afternoon prayer, O Shaykh?" "El Asr." "What didst thou when it was called?" "Am I not a believer?
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