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Rh a change in the scenes going on below. The wild mob had been driven back to make room for the entrance of an orderly procession, formed of bishops and priests in gorgeous robes. They carried silk and gold-embroidered banners, and chanted with solemnity and great emotion a beautiful litany, while they walked three times slowly round the sepulcher. A path had been made for them by a body of Turkish soldiers, who lined the inner and outer circle of the rotunda. They behaved with praiseworthy impassiveness, and they actually looked like automata. But the impatient pilgrims came forward again, bursting wildly through the ranks. The procession of priests was broken, and soon disappeared altogether. The soldiers retired, and the people recommenced their frantic dance round and round the sepulcher with renewed energy. The Arab worshipers shouted from time to time:

All the galleries, and even the niches in the square columns, were now occupied by lookers-on. Kamîl Pasha and his suite were in a box of the Latin gallery immediately above us. The French Consul, my brother, and several English travelers were also present. For about two hours the above scenes lasted. Then I observed a break in the crowd exactly opposite to an oval aperture which looked into the inclosure of the sepulcher. A priest in bright-yellow silk robes advanced toward it, and was welcomed with wild cries. He stooped forward, and thrust his head and shoulders and one arm through the hole, quite blocking it up. In this awkward posture he remained for a long time, and allowed himself to be beaten severely by the people who clustered round him.