Shere Ali was moved like the rest, but all the while at the back of his mind there was the thought of those white people in the galleries.
"They are laughing at us, they are making a mock of us, they think we are of no account." And fiercely he called upon his God, the God of the Mohammedans, to root them out from the land and cast them as weeds in the flame.
The priest stood up erect upon the platform, and with a vibrating voice, now plaintive and conveying some strange sense of loneliness, now loud in praise, now humble in submission, he intoned the prayers.

His voice rose and sank, reverberating back over the crowded courtyard from the walls of the mosque.

Shere Ali prayed too, but he prayed silently, with all the fervour of a fanatic, that it might be his hand which should drive the English to their ships upon the sea.
When he rose and came out from the mosque he turned to Ahmed Ismail.
"There are some of my people in Delhi ?" Ahmed Ismail bowed.
"Let us go to them," said Shere Ali; he sought refuge amongst them from the thought of those people in the galleries.

Ahmed Ismail was well content with the results of his pilgrimage.

Shere Ali, as he paced the streets of Delhi with a fierce rapt look in his eyes, had the very aspect of a Ghazi fresh from the hills and bent upon murder and immolation..