sort of roofed colonnade.

Her hostess passed under an elaborate archway, and Arlee followed
slowly, passing through one stately, high-ceiled, dusty room into
another, plunged again into the twilight of densely screening
_mashrubiyeh_. There were views of fine carving, painted ceilings,
inlaid door paneling, and rich and rusty embroideries where the name
of Allah could frequently be traced, but Arlee was ignorant of the
rare worth of all she saw; she stared about with no more than a
girl's romantic sense of the old-time grandeur and the Oriental
strangeness, mingled with a disappointment that it was all so empty
and devoid of life.

This part of the palace was very old, her hostess said
uninterestedly; these were the rooms of the dead and gone ladies of
the dead and gone years. One of the Mamelukes had first built this
wing for his favorite wife--she had been poisoned by her rival and
died, here, on that divan, the narrator indicated, with a negligent
gesture.

Wide-eyed, Arlee stared about the empty, darkened rooms and felt
dimly oppressed by them. They were so old, so melancholy, these
rooms of dead and gone ladies. How much of life had been lived here,
how much of hope had been smothered with these walls! What aching
love and fiery hate had vibrated here, only to smolder into helpless
ennui under the endless weight of tedious days.... She shivered
slightly, oppressed by the dreams of these ancient rooms, dreams
that were heavy with realities.

Slowly she moved back after her hostess, who had pushed back a