about eleven o'clock in the
morning
`` Let us go up the Bosphorus , '' I said . `` There will probably be a steamer before long . '' He assented readily enough . It was about eleven o'clock in the morning , -- five by the Turkish clocks , -- and the day was magnificent . The sun was high , and illuminated everything in the bright , cold air , so that the domes and minarets of the city were white as snow , with bluish shadows , while the gilded crescents and spires glistened with unnatural brilliancy in the clear winter 's daylight . It is hard to say whether Stamboul is more beautiful at any one season of the year than during the other three , for every season brings with it some especial loveliness , some new phase of color . You may reach Serai point on a winter 's morning in a driving snow-storm , so that everything is hidden in the gray veil of the falling flakes ; suddenly the clouds will part and the sunlight will fall full upon the city , so that it seems as if every mosque and spire were built of diamonds .