Through an iron gate, guarded by two tall Bedouin guards in black robes, we plunge at once into the shadow of enormous stones.

We are in the house of the god, in a forest of heavy Osiridean columns, surrounded by a world of people in high coiffures, carved in bas-relief on the pillars and walls--people who seem to be signalling one to another and exchanging amongst themselves mysterious signs, silently and for ever.
But what is this noise in the sanctuary?
It seems to be full of people.
There, sure enough, beyond a second row of columns, is quite a little crowd talking loudly in English.

I fancy that I can hear the clinking of glasses and the tapping of knives and forks.
Oh! poor, poor temple, to what strange uses are you come.

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