n-sesames, are
thrown open, we enter, _bismillah_.

CHAPTER IV

ON THE WHARF OF ENCHANTMENT

Not in our make-up, to be sure,--not in the pose which is preceded by
the tantaras of a trumpet,--do the essential traits in our character
first reveal themselves. But truly in the little things the real self
is exteriorised. Shakib observes closely the rapid changes in his
co-adventurer's humour, the shadowy traits which at that time he
little understood. And now, by applying his palm to his front, he
illumines those chambers of which he speaks, and also the niches
therein. He helps us to understand the insignificant points which mark
the rapid undercurrents of the seemingly sluggish soul of Khalid. Not
in vain, therefore, does he crystallise for us that first tear he shed
in the harbour of Manhattan. But his gush about the recondite beauty
of this pearl of melancholy, shall not be intended upon the gustatory
nerves of the Reader. This then we note--his description of New York
harbour.

"And is this the gate of Paradise," he asks, "or the port of some
subterrestrial city guarded by the Jinn? What a marvel of enchantment
is everything around us! What manifestations of industrial strength,
what monstrosities of wealth and power, are here! These vessels
proudly putting to sea; these tenders scurrying to meet the Atlantic
greyhound which is majestically moving up the bay; these barges
loading and unloading schooners from every strand, distant and near;
these huge lighters carrying even railroads over the water; these
fire-boats scudding through the harbour shrilling their sirens; these
careworn, grim, strenuous multitudes ferried across from one enchanted
shore to another; these giant structures tickling heaven's sides;
these cable bridges, spanning rivers, uniting cities; and this
superterrestrial goddess, torch in hand--wake up, Khalid, and behold
these wonders. Salaam, this enchanted City! There is the Brooklyn
Bridge, and here is the Statue of Liberty which people speak of, and
which are as famous as the Cedars of Lebanon."

But Khalid is as impassive as the bronze goddess herself. He leans
over the rail, his hand supporting his cheek, and gazes into the ooze.
The stolidity of his expression is appalling. With his mouth open as
usual, his lips relaxed, his tongue sticking out through the set
teeth,--he looks as if his head were in a noose. But suddenly he
braces up, runs down for his lute, and begins to serenade-