And the last and worst, when he retires to his room, he finds that her own is in the same side-hall opposite to his.
Now, who could have ordered it thus, of all the earthly powers? And who can say what so many mischances might not produce?
True, a thousand thistles do not make a rose; but with destiny this logic does not hold. For every new mischance makes us forget the one preceding; and the last and worst is bound to be the harbinger of good fortune.
Yes, every people, we imagine, has its aphorisms on the subject:
Distress is the key of relief, says the Arabic proverb; The strait leads to the plain, says the Chinese; The darkest hour is nearest the dawn, says the English.
But we must not make any stipulations with time, or trust in aphorisms. We do not know what Mrs. Gotfry’s ideas are on the subject. Nor can we say how she felt in the face of these strange coincidences.
In her religious heart, might there not be some shadow of an ancient superstition, some mystical, instinctive strain, in which the preternatural is resolved?
That is a question which neither our Scribe nor his Master will help us to answer. And we, having been faithful so far in the discharge of our editorial duty, can not at this juncture afford to fabricate.
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.