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THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC AIAGAZINE 



in battle by Joannice, King of the Bul- 

 garians, had been put to death, and his 

 skull, lined with gold, was serving as a 

 drinking-cup to his savage conqueror. 

 Hopeless and broken-hearted, nothing 

 was left the wanderer save to sicken and 

 die. The pathos of her story redeems 

 some of the coarser horrors of the Fourth 

 Crusade, and makes it meet that she 

 should rest at last within that most regal 

 pile where she had dreamed of being 

 crowned by her husband's hands. 



constantine's last communion 

 There is nothing more pathetic in the 

 long, troubled annals of the Eastern Em- 

 pire than the night before its glorious fall. 

 On May 28, 1453, an hour before mid- 

 night, Constantine came once more to 

 Sancta Sophia. The sacrament was ad- 

 ministered, but by Romish hands, to him 

 and to his immortal band, as to the dy- 

 ing. He knew, and so did each in that 

 silent company, that if they were faithful 

 unto death the sands of their earthly life 

 had less than 24 hours to run. No hope 

 of victory then flickered in that solemn 

 scene. No less grand was it than Leon- 

 idas and the Spartans at Thermopylae. 

 All equal in that crucial hour, the Em- 

 peror, that he might be absolved by all, 

 begged the forgiveness of any whom in 

 his brief reign he might have unwittingly 

 wronged. The mail-clad men were not 

 ashamed to weep, and their answering 

 sobs alone broke the stillness. Then the 

 last Byzantine emperor crossed the 

 threshold that for centuries no Christian 

 sovereign was to tread. 



On the following day Sancta Sophia 

 was packed with a throng such as it had 

 never seen before. Not that the con- 

 course was more vast, but a common 

 agony filled the souls of all. Some were 

 indeed clinging to the ancient legend that 

 when a victorious enemy reached the Col- 

 umn of Constantine an angel would place 

 a flaming sword in the hand of a little 

 child, who forthwith would drive back 

 the invaders. The Ottomans beat open 

 the doors of the southern vestibule, 

 whereon may still be seen the marks of 

 their impatient violence. The crowded 

 mob of refugees, paralyzed with horror, 

 offered no resistance. No blood was 

 shed, either of conquered or conqueror. 

 No violence was used. The half -dead 



captives — ascetic monk and maiden on 

 whose veiled face the sun had hardly 

 shone, high-born lady and kitchen scul- 

 lion, patrician and beggar — were bound 

 together in couples and driven forth in 

 long files to be sold as slaves. 



the; ottomans' devotion 



The Ottomans regard Sancta Sophia 

 with the utmost reverence. Therein they 

 but follow the example of the illustrious 

 Conqueror, whose eager steps first turned 

 hither after his hard-won victory and 

 whose first official act in his blood-bought 

 capital was its conversion into a mosque. 

 Alone of all churches submitted to Islam, 

 it retains its Christian name, the Aya 

 Sofia of the Moslems being but the literal 

 rendering of the 'Aywx. 2o<^ta of the Greeks. 



Despite all their eft'orts to transform 

 Sancta Sophia, its Christian characteris- 

 tics can be efl:aced only by its own de- 

 struction. Its structural form has always 

 resisted the requirements of the Moslem 

 ritual. It resembles a mighty captive, 

 ever mutely protesting against his chains. 

 The long rows of prayer carpets stretch 

 in diagonal lines, inharmonious, across 

 the floor, and the devotees, facing Mecca, 

 are forced to bend in an unnatural direc- 

 tion toward the corner of the church. 



Christ's image stile remains 



In the prostituted church the Chris- 

 tian, weary of Arabic inscriptions and 

 Ottoman traditions, grows heart-sick and 

 hungry for something that is his. The 

 ever-present architectural grandeur and 

 invisible memories of the past are not 

 enough. Let him ascend the southern 

 gallery and gaze from among the six 

 colonnaded columns toward the vaulted 

 ceiling above the five wnndows of the cen- 

 tral apse. Gradually in the dim, half- 

 veiled surface he discerns the mosaic 

 form of a colossal Christ. The hair, the 

 forehead, the mild eyes of the Saviour 

 may be traced and the indistinct outline 

 of his form. The right hand, gentle 



"as when 

 In love and in meekness he moved among 

 men," 



is extended still in unutterable blessing, 

 and in its comprehensive reach seems to 

 embrace the stranger. Within the shadow 

 one feels Christ is keeping watch above 

 his own. 



