While he was driving into the court-yard the priest came out on the minaret and called men to prayer, and an English girl who sat at the next window informed her mother that he was announcing the names of the important persons in the procession!  Her mother trained her glasses on him—­a mere speck against the sky—­and said, “Fancy!”

The Sultan is not a beauty.  If he were in America his sign would be that of the three golden balls.

We went to see the mosques, and the officials and priests and boatmen were so cross and surly on account of the fast of Ramazan that they would not let us take photographs without a fight.  During Ramazan they neither eat nor drink between sunrise and sunset.

On the fifteenth day of Ramazan the Sultan goes to the mosque of Eyoob to buckle on the sword of Mohammed in order to remind himself that the power of that sword has descended to himself.  He does not announce his route, therefore the whole city is in a commotion, and they spread miles of streets with sand for fear he might take it into his head to go by some unusual way.  It passes my comprehension why they should ever put any more dirt in the streets even for a Sultan.  But sand is a mark of respect in Russia and Turkey, and it really cleans the streets a little.  At least it absorbs the mud.  Just as we were about to start for a balcony beneath which he was almost sure to pass, our Turkish friend whispered to us that if we wore capes we might take our cameras.  Imagine our delight, for it was so dangerous.  But the capes!  Ours were not half long enough to conceal the camera properly.  It was growing late.  So in a perfect frenzy I dragged out my long pale blue sortie du bal, ripped the white velvet capes from it, pinned a short sable cape to the top of it with safety-pins, and enveloped myself in this gorgeousness at eleven o’clock in the morning.  We made a curious trio.  Our Turk was in English tweeds with a fez.  My companion wore a smart tailor gown, and I was got up as if for a fancy-dress ball, but in the streets of Constantinople no one gave me a second glance.  I was in mourning compared to some of the others.

On the balcony with us were two small boys with projecting ears, of whom I stood in deadly terror, for if their boyish interest centred in that camera of mine I was lost.  Presently, however, with a tremendous clatter, the Sultan’s advance-guard came galloping down the street.  I got them, turned the film, and was ready for the next—­the carriages of the state officials.  I aimed well, and got them, but I was growing nervous.  The boys writhed closer.  I shoved them a little when their mother was not looking.

“Don’t try to take so many,” said our Turk.  “Here comes the Sultan.  Aim low, and don’t fire until you see the whites of his eyes.”

Again he looked up directly at us, and I snapped the shutter promptly.  It was done.  I had succeeded in photographing the Sultan!  To be sure, it was an offense against the state, punishable by fine and imprisonment, but nobody had caught me.  The little boy next to me, who had walked on my dress and ground his elbows into me, craned his neck and stared at the Sultan with round eyes.  He had been in my way ever since we arrived, but in an exuberance of tenderness I patted his head.