It is to the credit of the victorious Christians that they did not cool their religious ardour by destroying this Islamitic place of worship. It is extremely regrettable that their descendants have treated this monument of Mohammedan culture with such carelessness.
The mosque became a Christian church. Where once the cry of “Allah illah Allah!" echoed thousandfold, “Praise be the Lord!" is now sung. The first deed was to erect altars in the door-niches. Then seventy pillars were laid low, and a choir with the High-Altar erected in their stead: a church within a church. Charles V. was reluctant to give his permission for these alterations. When he came to Cordova and saw what had been done, he exclaimed in perturbation: “What you are building can be seen anywhere. You have destroyed what was unique in the world."[B]
Untouched in its pristine beauty, hidden in semi-darkness, not far from the Holy of Holies of the Christian church, stands the Holy of Holies of the mosque, the Mihrab or prayer-niche in which the Koran was kept. It is a jewel of Moorish art. Whereas the rest of the mosque columns are connected by double horse-shoe arches, banded in red and white, here the beautifully chased dentated arches rise straight to the lovely curved dome. The niche socle is white marble of lace-like texture above which a profusion of colours glow: blood-red, rust brown, dark blue violet interwoven with a sublime sheen of gold. Perhaps the mosaic walls and lettered scrolls upon them have in some mystical manner caught the light of the thousand swinging lamps that once had cast their soft rays through the dim shades of space. For six long centuries all these glowing colours were hidden. Before Cordova was surrendered to the Christians the sanctuary was walled up. It was only discovered in 1815.
We pass entranced along the colonnaded aisles, enthraled by the wondrous beauty of this miracle in stone. It is like awakening from a fantastic dream to set foot again in the blinding sun of the silent town that has become the shrine of one of the most precious jewels in the world (50-60).
=Moorish scenes far from the beaten track=: A burning hot day in August.--The air trembles in the heat over the olive trees. The day hangs heavy in the blue vault of heaven. I had been wandering for long long hours, when all of a sudden my eyes were caught by a fata morgana: wafted perhaps from the coast of Morocco? No, it was no mirage. Impossible! Yet it did not disappear as I approached. Strange indeed was the scene: houses scattered like dice over a mountain (91).