Another morning we found ourselves seated in a tram-car between two colossal black eunuchs charged by one of Abdul Aziz’s aides-de-camp with the duty of escorting us over the imperial palace of Cheragan, situated on the Bosphorus just below Beshiktash. I recall distinctly the mingled feeling of curiosity and repulsion with which I looked out of the corner of my eye at the eunuch beside me, towering above me by nearly a head, and with one mighty hand resting open upon his knee. Every time I turned I could catch the faint perfume of essence of bergamot with which his sleek, correct court costume was scented. When the car stopped I put my hand in my pocket to draw out my purse, but the enormous hand of the eunuch closed upon my own like a steel vise, and his great eyes met mine with a warning look, as who should say, “Christian, refrain from offering me such an insult, or I will break every bone in your body.” Alighting before a small door covered with arabesques, we entered a long corridor, where we were presently met by a party of servants in livery, who conducted us up a wide stairway leading to the royal apartments. Here, at all events, there was no need to recall historical associations in order to obtain a vivid and life-like impression. The air was still warm with the breath of the court. The wide divans covered with satin and velvet which extended along the walls were the very same upon which but a few weeks before the Sultan’s odalisques had reclined: a vague suggestion of warm, sensuous life still floated in the air. We walked through a long succession of gorgeous rooms, some decorated after the European fashion, others after the Moorish, all rich and beautiful, but possessing a sort of stately simplicity which awed us, making us talk in subdued tones, while all the time the eunuchs, muttering a string of unintelligible remarks and explanations, pointed out now a certain corner, now a doorway, with the wary gestures of those who reveal something secret and mysterious. Silken hangings, many-hued carpets, mosaic tables--rich oil paintings hung where the light could fall upon them--graceful archways of the doors, divided in the middle by little Arabian pillars, lofty candelabra--resembling crystal trees--which tinkled musically as we shook them in passing,--all these things followed so close upon one another that they became a confused medley almost as soon as seen, our minds being more intent upon visions of possible flying odalisques taken by surprise. The only thing of which I retained any distinct impression was the Sultan’s bath-room, of white marble and carved to represent stalactites, hanging flowers, lace, and delicate fretwork, all so airy and light that one feared to touch it with so much as the point of a finger for fear of its breaking. The arrangement of the rooms reminded me a little of the Alhambra. We passed through them hurriedly, noiselessly over the thick carpets, almost furtively. From time to time