Then, hand-in-hand, we crossed the great moonlit open court to the gate by which Grim had brought us in.
Looking back, so bright was the moon that you could even see the blue of the tiles that cover the mosque wall, and the interwoven scroll of writing from the Koran that runs around like a frieze below the dome.

But it did not look real.

It was like a dream-picture--perhaps the dream of the men who slept huddled under blankets in the porches by the gate.

If so, they dreamed beautifully.
There was a Sikh, as Grim had said there would be, standing with fixed bayonet on the bottom step leading to the street.

He stared hard at me, and brought his rifle to the challenge as I approached him--a six-foot, black-bearded stalwart he was, with a long row of campaign ribbons, and the true, truculent Sikh way of carrying his head.