The ladies were sitting on the floor of the alcoves in groups of six or seven, and pan boxes were much in evidence. Our hostess went into the open courtyard and mounted a low, square table, over which was thrown a rug. We sat down opposite her and she proceeded to make pan for us, and we remained there for perhaps half an hour, waiting for the servants to finish their dinner. There were at least fifty servants and slaves, all running around aimlessly, doing whatever they found to do at the time, with what seemed no system nor order governing their work. The mistress had rather a shrill voice, and her orders could be heard very distinctly as she called to some one in another part of the court. I asked my friend if Indian ladies generally had such loud voices and commanding tones, and she laughed and said: “Well, if they have not to begin with they soon acquire them, as they must be heard above the confusion always reigning in one of these great houses, where there are innumerable servants, slaves, and poor relations. It takes a strong-minded woman, and one with no mean executive ability, to keep peace and harmony in an Eastern zenana.” After every one had gossiped to her heart’s content, we went to a large room at the end of the courtyard, which was fitted up as a chapel. In front of an altar were three pieces of wood wreathed with flowers to represent the tombs of Ali, Hossain, and Hassan. Facing the tombs were ten girls, and the guests grouped themselves around them on the floor. When we were all seated they began to chant. One would sing a line, then the rest would join their voices and sing four or five lines; then a short pause, and the leader would again start the chant. The listeners were absolutely quiet, and the music rose and fell in weird, minor strains that sounded tragic even to ears that could not understand the words. The whole story of the slaying of the martyrs was told, and this recital of their passion play moved the hearers deeply. From one part of the room I heard a sob, then from another, and soon there was not a dry eye in the place. At a certain strain in the music all rose, preceded by the women carrying the miniature tombs, and marched slowly into an outer courtyard, where incense was waved over the flower-wreathed pieces of wood, after which a return was made to the room and the chanting commenced again. We did not sit down, and the most dramatic part of the performance began. All stood and beat their breasts in time with the music, and, as chorus to the verses, would cry, “Hossain, Hassan! Hossain, Hassan!” The servants beat their breasts so severely that it seemed they would seriously hurt themselves, and it is considered a great mark of piety to severely chastise themselves at this time, but the ladies were more conservative and kept time with light taps.