“Let us enjoy it where it is!” The beautiful wooden roof covered with Arabic inscriptions is connected with the walls by a stalactite vaulting like the ceilings of the Alhambra. The gold mosaics of the walls recalled the mosaics of Ravenna; this blending of Arabic and Byzantine decorations with Norman architecture is perfectly harmonious; the result is a unique chapel, one of the jewels of Sicily, the treasure house. The good smell of incense, the low voice of a priest in the confessional muttering words of good counsel to a kneeling penitent, made the place warm, alive, part of today. “That’s either a great swell or a great sinner,” whispered Patsy. “No one else would deserve so much attention from a royal chaplain. I wonder which it is. Not that it matters much. I once asked the verger of Salisbury cathedral if people ever came there to pray. ‘I sometimes catches ’em at it!’ he answered fiercely. That’s the spirit that makes the English cathedrals seem like so many museums! This chapel has something of the same defect; that swell or sinner just saves it!” In Palermo we felt the influence of the Arab everywhere, in the streets as well as in churches and palaces. The gravity of the people, their stern flashing eyes, something in their bearing as if they were never without a sense of what is due them, recalls not only the Arab, but the Spaniard who has been so much influenced by him. The women of the lower class have the same magnificent black hair as the Syracusans. Few of them wear hats; there is some picturesque dressing, but the bright handkerchiefs worn over the head, and the pretty lace aprons, are the last trace of the native costume that has practically disappeared from the city. We saw few beggars. If we asked our way we were always answered with politeness, ceremony even. In a shop where we went to buy gloves we found the same indifference of the seller to the buyer that we noticed in Madrid--a take-it-or-leave-it spirit--not encouraging to trade. “These gloves are rather light for traveling,” I said. “Show me some darker ones.” “They may soil,” said the dealer truculently; “they will never wear out.” “Are they of Sicilian make?” “They were made in this shop.” The gloves proved all their maker claimed; indeed they still survive. “That standoffishness is, I suppose, the result of Sicilian _omertà_!” said Patsy. “I like these people, though I don’t understand them; you miss that jolly flash of sympathy the Italian gives you. They’re very different--Sicilians; they’re not quite Italian, I think!”