st overtake them. That heavy,
slow-going, slow-thinking Monster--and it makes little difference
whether he comes from the North or from the West--will wait until the
contending parties exhaust their strength and then--but this is not
our subject. We would that this pursuing business cease on all sides,
and that everybody of all parties concerned pursue rather, and
destroy, the big strong devil within them. Thus sayeth the preacher.
And thus, for once, we, too. For does not every one of these furious
angels of Equality, whether in Constantinople, in Berlin, in Paris, in
London, or in New York, sit on his wings and reveal his horns when he
rises to power? We are tired of wings that are really nothing but
horns, misshaped and misplaced.

Look at our French-swearing, whiskey-drinking Tataric angels of the
Dastur! Indeed, we rejoice that our poor little Devil is now beyond
the reach of their dripping steel and rickety second-hand gibbets. And
yet, not very far; for if the British Government consent or blink,
Khalid and many real reactionists whom Cairo harbours, would have to
seek an asylum elsewhere. And the third flight might not be as
successful as the others. But none such is necessary. On the sands of
the Libyan desert, not far from Cairo and within wind of Helwan, they
pitch their tents. And Mrs. Gotfry is staying at Al-Hayat, which is a
stone's throw from their evening fire. She would have Khalid live
there too, but he refuses. He will live with his cousin and Shakib
for a while. He is captivated, we are told, by that little cherub of a
babe. But this does not prevent him from visiting his friend the
Buhaist Priestess every day and dining often with her at the Hotel.

She, too, not infrequently comes to the camp. Indeed, finding the
solitude agreeable she has a tent pitched near theirs. And as a relief
from the noise and bustle of tourists and the fatiguing formalities of
Hotel life, she repairs thither for a few days every week.

Now, in this austere delicacy of the desert, where allwhere is the
softness of pure sand, Khalid is perfectly happy. Never did he seem so
careless, our Scribe asserts, and so jovial and child-like in his
joys. Far from the noise and strife of politics, far from the
bewildering tangle of thought, far from the vain hopes and dreams and
ambitions of life, he lives each day as if it were the last of the
world. Here are joys manifold for a weary and persecuted spirit: the
joy of having your de