ubble. The fire-eating Dervish, how can he now swallow this
double-tongued flame of hate and love? The Enchantress had wrought her
spell, had ministered her poison. Now, where can he find an antidote,
who can teach him a healing formula? Bruno D'Ast was once bewitched by
a sorceress, and by causing her to be burned he was immediately cured.
Ah, that Khalid could do this! Like an ordinary pamphlet he would
consign the Enchantress to the flames, and her scrap-books and novels
to boot. He does well, however, to return to his benevolent friend,
the Medium. The spell can be counteracted by another, though less
potent. Ay, even witchcraft has its homeopathic remedies.

And the Medium, Shakib tells us, is delighted to welcome back her
prodigal child. She opens to him her arms, and her heart; she slays
the fatted calf. "I knew that Allah will bring you back to me," she
ejaculates; "my prevision is seldom wrong." And kissing her hand,
Khalid falters, "Forgiveness is for the sinner, and the good are for
forgiveness." Whereupon, they plunge again into the Unseen, and thence
to Bohemia. The aftermath, however, does not come up to the
expectations of the good Medium. For the rigmarole of the Enchantress
about the Dervish in New York had already done its evil work.
And--double--double--wherever the Dervish goes. Especially in Bohemia,
where many of its daughters set their caps for him.

And here, he is neither shy nor slow nor visionary. Nor shall his
theory of immanent morality trouble him for the while. Reality is met
with reality on solid, though sometimes slippery, ground. His
animalism, long leashed and starved, is eager for prey. His Phoenician
passion is awake. And fortunately, Khalid finds himself in Bohemia
where the poison and the antidote are frequently offered together.
Here the spell of one sorceress can straightway be offset by that of
her sister. And we have our Scribe's word for it, that the Dervish
went as far and as deep with the huris, as the doctors eventually
would permit him. That is why, we believe, in commenting upon his
adventures there, he often quotes the couplet,

"In my sublunar paradise
There's plenty of honey--and plenty of flies."

The flies in his cup, however, can not be detected with the naked
eye. They are microbes rather--microbes which even the physicians can
not manage with satisfaction. For it must be acknowledged that
Khalid's immanent morality and intellectualism suffered an inte