He was very fond of talking, perhaps because he told a story so well, or perhaps because, being of an adventurous disposition, he had been in many a scrape. One night, he told us of his experience when, in disguise, he had managed to penetrate into the tekhe of the dervishes of Stamboul and witness one of their secret ceremonies. It was one to which the most orthodox Mussulmans alone were admitted, and a Christian took his life in his hand if he tried to be present. He described the ceremony as something weird but not unpleasant, as something worth seeing.
There are people in the world who add splendour to whatever they describe, a splendour which is in their hearts and minds and not in the seen thing. Such a man was Damon Kallerghis.
In the silence that followed his words, the tapping of the hour by the bektchi, on his nightly rounds, came to us from sleeping Constantinople outside.
"And how often do the ceremonies occur?" I asked, breathless with the interest he had aroused.
"Twice a year. The next one will be in six weeks."
That night I could not sleep for the haunting remembrance of the uncanny wonders to which I had listened. I did not even go to bed. Sitting by the window I looked at the white minarets, faintly gleaming against the dark blue oriental
