Then each began to grow larger and larger, as though slowly arising from that vaporous sea, and on all sides thousands of roofs, domes, towers, and minarets floated gayly into sight, crowding close together or chasing after one another as though each were skurrying to take his place before being caught by the sun. Already Skutari lay exposed to view, as well as nearly all of Stambul; on the other bank of the Golden Horn we could see the higher parts of all those outskirts which stretch from Galata to the Sweet Waters; and on the European shore of the Bosphorus, Topkâneh, Fundukli, Dolmabâghcheh, Beshiktash, and so on, as far as the eye could reach, village after village, great tiers of buildings, and still more distant towns, of which only the roofs could be seen, bathed in a soft pink glow. But the Golden Horn, the Bosphorus, the sea were still invisible. Our two pilgrims would have been completely puzzled: apparently it was an immense city built above two deep valleys, perpetually enveloped in fog, one opening into the other; and they might well have wondered what those two mysterious abysses could possibly contain. But, behold! Yet a few moments and the dull gray of the remaining clouds begins to melt into blue; then a shimmer appears. Water? a bay? No, a strait, a sea, two seas! All of Constantinople at length stands forth revealed, bathed in light, framed in blue and green, looking as though she might just have left the hands of the Creator. Oh the beautiful vision! What avails it that we have already gazed enraptured upon you from a hundred different heights, examined your every minutest detail, and given voice over and over again to our wonder and admiration? Once more we must engage in the vain struggle to express our sense of your all-inexpressible loveliness; and this time it is with the knowledge that yet a few short days and you are destined to fade for ever from our eyes, henceforth to be only a vague, confused memory; the veil of mist will settle down, to lift again no more for ever; the moment of parting is at hand. I know not why, but it is as though we were going into exile, and the horizon of our lives seems to grow indistinct. * * * * * And yet even in Constantinople, and when there are only a few days left, one is sometimes bored. The mind, completely wearied out, refuses to receive any more new impressions. We would cross the bridge without turning our heads: everything seemed to be the same color; we wandered aimlessly about, yawning and uninterested like a couple of idle vagabonds; spent hour after hour sitting in front of a Turkish café staring at the ground, or lounging at the hotel windows watching the cats climb over the opposite roofs. We were satiated with the Orient, and felt within us a growing desire for work and activity. [Illustration: Coffee-Maker.]