And now we descend from the chariot of the empyrean where we are riding with gods and apostles, and enter into one drawn by mortal coursers. We go out for a drive, and alight from the carriage in the poplar grove, to meander in its shades, along its streams. But digressing from one path into another, we enter unaware the eternal vista of love. There, on a boulder washed by the murmuring current, in the shade of the silver-tufted poplars, Khalid and Mrs. Gotfry sit down for a rest.
“Everything in life must always resolve itself into love,” said Khalid, as he stood on the rock holding out his hand to his friend. “Love is the divine solvent. Love is the splendour of God.”
Mrs. Gotfry paused at the last words. She was startled by this image. Love, the splendour of God? Why, the Bab, the Baha, is the splendour of God. Baha mean splendour. The Baha, therefore, is love. Love is the new religion. It is the old religion, the eternal religion, the only religion. How came he by this, this young Syrian? Would he rival the Baha? Rise above him? They are of kindred races—their ancestors, too, may be mine. Love the splendour of God—God the splendour of Love. Have I been all along fooling myself? Did I not know my own heart?
These, and more such, passed through Mrs. Gotfry’s mind, as shuttles through a loom, while Khalid was helping her up to her seat on the boulder, which is washed by the murmuring current.
“If life were such a rock under our feet,” said he, pressing his lips upon her hand, “the divine currents around it will melt it, soon or late, into love.”