About 3 A.M.
After the minute 's wavering which self-respect commanded , the Tarasconian chose his course manfully . Down he sat , and they touched glasses . Baya , gliding down at that chink , sang the finale of `` Marco la Bella , '' and the jollification was prolonged deep into the night . About 3 A.M. , with a light head but a heavy foot , our good Tarasconian was returning from seeing his friend the captain off when , in passing the mosque , the remembrance of his muezzin and his practical jokes made him laugh , and instantly a capital idea of revenge flitted through his brain . The door was open . He entered , threaded long corridors hung with mats , mounted and kept on mounting till he finally found himself in a little oratory , where an openwork iron lantern swung from the ceiling , and embroidered an odd pattern in shadows upon the blanched walls . There sat the crier on a divan , in his large turban and white pelisse , with his Mostaganam pipe , and a bumper of absinthe before him , which he whipped up in the orthodox manner , whilst awaiting the hour to call true believers to prayer .