Beneath the outstretched wing under which we stood a large number of people had assembled. Great blazing braziers here and there illuminated the weird place with a red uncertain glare, which falling on the faces of the crowd of devotees, showed that they had worked themselves into a frenzy of religious fervour. Some were crying aloud to the Crocodile-god, some were prostrate on their faces with their lips to the stones worn smooth by the tramp of many feet, while many were going through all sorts of ceremonies and antics. At the end, where the colossal wing joined the body wherein burned the great fiery furnace, there stood twelve dwarfs in flowing garments of pure white. These were high-priests of Zomara. The fierce pigmies, unknown even to Omar, their prince, seemed a sacred tribe who perhaps had lived here forgotten and undiscovered for generations. In any case it was apparent that they never ascended to the land above, but devoted themselves entirely to the curious rites and ceremonies of this strange pagan religion. In the centre of the semi-circle of tiny bead-eyed priests with whitened faces stood one of great age with flowing white beard that nearly swept the ground. His figure was exceedingly grotesque, yet he bore himself with hauteur, and as he stood before a kind of altar erected in front of a door, that seemed to lead into the body of the gigantic crocodile, he gave vent in a loud clear voice to the most earnest exhortations. Then, bathing his face and hands in a golden bowl held by the other priests, in order, so I afterwards learnt, to wash away the bad impressions of the world, he thus began an instructive lesson: