hecked. And Khalid was called
"the dervish of science" by one; "the rope-dancer of nature" by
another.

"Our Prophet lived in a cave in the wilderness of New York for five
years," remarked a third.

"And he sold his camel yesterday and bought a bicycle instead."

"The Young Turks can not catch him now."

"Ah, but wait till England gets after our new Muhdi."

"Wait till his new phthisic-stricken wife dies."

"Whom will our Prophet marry, if among all the virgins of Egypt we can
not find a consumptive for him?"

"And when he pulls down the pyramids to build American Skyscrapers
with their stones, where shall we bury then our Muhdi?"

All of which, although mystifying to us, and depressing, was none the
less reassuring. For Khalid, it seems, is not a myth. No; we can even
see him, we are told, and touch him, and hear him speak.

"Shakib the poet, his most intimate friend and disciple, will bring
you into the sacred presence."

"You can not miss him, for he is the drummer of our new Muhdi, ha, ha,
ha!"

And this Shakib was then suspended and stoned. But their humour, like
the odor and smoke of gunjah, (hasheesh) was become stifling. So, we
lay our chobok down; and, thanking them for the entertainment, we
struggle through the rolling reek and fling to the open air.

In the grill-room of the Mena House we meet the poet Shakib, who was
then drawing his inspiration from a glass of whiskey and soda. Nay, he
was drowning his sorrows therein, for his Master, alas! has
mysteriously disappeared.

"I have not seen him for ten days," said the Poet; "and I know not
where he is.--If I did? Ah, my friend, you would not then see me here.
Indeed, I should be with him, and though he be in the trap of the
Young Turks." And some real tears flowed down the cheeks of the Poet,
as he spoke.

The Mena House, a charming little Branch of Civilisation at the gate
of the desert, stands, like man himself, in the shadow of two terrible
immensities, the Sphinx and the Pyramid, the Origin and the End. And
in the grill-room, over a glass of whiskey and soda, we presume to
solve in few words the eternal mystery. But that is not what we came
for. And to avoid the bewildering depths into which we were led, we
suggested a stroll on the sands. Here the Poet waxed more eloquent,
and shed more tears.

"This is our favourite haunt," said he; "here is where we ramble, here
is where we loaf. And Khalid once said to me, 'In loafing here, I work