How well I remember the poor boy (a particularly serious “case”) who asked me to “tell Jeanne” that ... “he was well and happy and enjoying himself. But that some friends had written and told him she had not been faithful, and ‘he didn’t care.’ All the girls were running after him, and the grand ladies, too. He hadn’t any time to think about _her_.” He afterwards gave me careful instructions about a P.S. “But I do think of her sometimes.” In another few minutes it was, “I often think of her.” And, finally, “you can tell her that I forgive her, and love her as much as ever.” * * * * * Every corner of Broussa reveals the true “Islam” atmosphere; whether you look down on it from the surrounding heights, or wander along its quaint streets and alleys. Everywhere you see latticed windows, mosques, and dervishes’ Tekké. It stands on a wide stretch of marshland, seemingly going on for ever, with its countless rows of skeleton-poplars, that stand out in the blue-grey mist like ghostly sentinels. I decided there could be no better opportunity to indulge in an adventure I had often contemplated: climb up the highest of all the minarets to reach “the top of the top!” The narrow and winding staircase was sadly in need of repair; but at the long last I found myself on the tiny balcony from which the muezzin daily summons “the faithful” to prayer. “Do you think I might sing?” I asked. “It would be interesting to know how far the voice carries at this height.” “As you please,” he answered; but as it was clear that he was decidedly embarrassed, if not shocked, I contented myself with quietly humming _Gloria in Excelsis_. When I told him the words—“On earth peace, to men of goodwill,” he answered, reverently, “_Inch Allah_.” “You see,” I explained, “the muezzin calls the faithful to prayer, I call them to peace.” * * * * * As, perhaps, I ought to have foreseen, it proved a far more difficult business to get _down_ those steps than it had been to climb _up_. Somehow the walls seemed closing in upon me, and the mere idea of starting upon the descent brought on a fit of unmanageable giddiness. My guide promptly offered to carry me, but I did not believe it could be done; and, in any case, I should not wish him to make the attempt. When I have plucked up courage to trust my own feet, they are constantly slipping over the worn stones, and often we find three or four missing altogether; still it would not be possible to jump. “I am only just in front of you,” said my guide, “if you fall, you will fall on me.” I _ought_ to have been thoroughly ashamed of myself, but I could only say, “You must let me manage my own way and slide down as best I can.” I am perfectly comfortable in an aeroplane at an altitude of 10,000 feet; and to this day I have never been able to understand why that minaret made me so giddy.