on her caparisoned palfrey and the decorated Excellency
coming up along side of her, he was revived soon after and persuaded
to return home. But on the following morning, our Scribe tells us,
coming up to the booth, he finds neither Khalid there, nor any of his
few worldly belongings. We, however, have formed a theory of our own,
based on certain of his writings in the K. L. MS., about his
mysterious levitation; and we believe he is now somewhither whittling
arrows for a coming combat. In the Lebanon mountains perhaps. But we
must not dog him like the Jesuits. Rather let us reverence the privacy
of man, the sacredness of his religious retreat. For no matter where
he is in the flesh, we are metaphysically certain of his existence.
And instead of filling up this Chapter with the bitter bickerings of
life and the wickedness and machination of those in power, let us
consecrate it to the divine peace and beauty of Nature. Of a number of
Chapters in the Book of Khalid on this subject, we choose the one
entitled, My Native Terraces, or Spring in Syria, symbolising the
natural succession to Khalid's Winter of destiny. In it are signal
manifestations of the triumph of the soul over the diseases and
adversities and sorrows of mortal life. Indeed, here is an example of
faith and power and love which we reckon sublime.

* * * * *

"The inhabitants of my terraces and terrace walls," we translate,
"dressed in their Sunday best, are in the doorways lounging or peeping
idly through their windows. And why not? It is Spring, and to these
delicate, sweet little creatures, Spring is the one Sunday of the
year. Have they not hugged the damp, dark earth long enough? Hidden
from the wrath of Winter, have they not squatted patiently round the
primitive, smokeless fire of the mystic depths? And now, the rain
having partly extinguished the inner, hidden flame, they come out to
bask in the sun, and drink deeply of the ambrosial air. They come,
almost slain with thirst, to the Mother Fountain. They come out to
worship at the shrine of the sweet-souled, God-absorbed Rabia of
Attar. In their bright, glowing faces what a delectable message from
the under world of romance and enchantment! Their lips are red with
the kisses of love, in whose alembics, intangible, unseen, the dark
and damp of the earth are translated into warmth and colour and shade.
Ay, these dear little children, unfolding their soft green sc