The hall is high and spacious. Four or five colossal gilded statues dominate the background. The largest is seated on a throne in the middle. His eyes and mouth are closed, his feet drawn under him, and one hand, held in the “gesture of witness,” points to the earth. Thus, under the sacred tree, the perfect Buddha conceived himself. Escaped from the wheel of life, he participates in his own Nirvana. Others perched above him, with downcast eyes, contemplate their navels. These are the Heavenly Buddhas seated on lotus flowers. They are Avalokhita, Amitabha, the Buddha of the Light without Measure and the Buddha of the Paradise of the West. At their feet the bonzes pursue their rites. They have gray robes; large, somewhat rust-colored mantles attached to the shoulder like togas; leggings of white linen; and, some of them, a sort of mortar-board on their heads. Others bare their scalps, where the white marks of _moxas_ show the number of their vows. One by one, murmuring, they file past. The last who passes is a boy of twelve years. By a side hall I reach the third court and see a third temple. Four priests perched on stools are ranged inside the door. Their shoes are left on the earth before them; and without the need of feet, detached, imponderable, they are seated on their own thoughts. They make no movement. Their mouths, their closed eyes, are one with the creases and wrinkles in the wasted flesh of their faces, like the scar of the navel. Consciousness of their inertia is sufficient for their ruminating intelligence. Under a niche in the middle of the hall, I distinguish the shining limbs of another Buddha. A confused company of idols is ranged in the obscurity along the walls. Returning, I see the central temple from the rear. High on the wall of an embrasure a many-colored tympan represents some legend among olive-trees. I re-enter. The back of the repository where the colossi are exposed is a great painted sculpture: Amitofou mounting to Heaven amid flames and demons. The setting sun, passing through the trellised openings high in the wall, sweeps the somber boxlike hall with horizontal rays. The bonzes continue the ceremony. Kneeling now before the colossi, they are intoning a chant, while the celebrant, standing before a bell shaped like a cask, leads the measured beat of drums and bells. At each verse he clashes the drum, drawing from its brazen belly a re-echoing vibration. Then, facing each other in two lines, they recite some litany. The side buildings are the dwellings of the priests. One of them enters, carrying a pail of water. I glance into the refectory where the bowls of rice are placed two by two on the empty tables. I am again before the tower.