Bobby Shaftoe excuses himself and goes wandering through the compound. It seems as big and crazy as that Casbah in Algiers, all gloomy and dusty on the inside, and filled with still more La Pasyon art, made by artists who had obviously witnessed whippings firsthand, and who didn’t need any priest spouting little homilies about the glamor of Evil. He goes up and down the great stairway once, for old time’s sake, remembering the night Glory took him here.