We know, however, that the Priestess of Bahaism and the beardless, long-haired Dervish have many a conversation together: in the train, in the Hotel, in the parks and groves of Damascus, they tap their hearts and minds, and drink of each other’s wine of thought and fancy.
“I first mistook you for a Mohammedan,” she said to him once; and he assured her that she was not mistaken.
“Then, you are not a Christian?”
“I am a Christian, too.”
And he relates of the Baha when he was on trial in Rhodes. “Of what religion are you,” asks the Judge. “I am neither a Camel-driver nor a Carpenter,” replies the Baha, alluding thereby to Mohammad and Christ. “If you ask me the same question,” Khalid continues—“but I see you are uncomfortable.” And he takes up the cushion which had fallen behind the divan, and places it under her arm. He then lights a cigarette and holds it up to her inquiringly. Yes? He, therefore, lights another for himself, and continues. “If you ask me the same question that was asked the Baha, I would not hesitate in saying that I am both a Camel-driver and Carpenter. I might also be a Bahaist in a certain sense. I