“But I would brush the cobwebs of interpretation and sophism from this Work of the heart,” he cries; “every spider’s web in the Mosque, I would sweep away. The garments of your religion, I would have you clean, O my Brothers. Ay, even the threadbare adventitious wrappages, I would throw away. From the religiosity and cant of today I call you back to the religion pure of the heart. …”
But the Field of poppies and daisies begins to sway as under a gale. It is swelling violently, tumultuously.
“I would free al-Islam,” he continues, “from its degrading customs, its stupefying traditions, its enslaving superstitions, its imbruting cants.”
Here several voices in the audience order the speaker to stop. “Innovation! Infidelity!” they cry.
“The yearly pestiferous consequences of the Haji”—But Khalid no longer can be heard. On all sides zealotry raises and shakes a protesting hand; on all sides it shrieks, objurgating, threatening. Here it asks, “We would like to know if the speaker be a Wahhabi.” From another part of the Mosque comes the reply: “Ay, he is a Wahhabi.” And the voice of the speaker thundering above the storm: “Only in Wahhabism pure and simple is the reformation of al-Islam possible.” … Finis.
Zealotry is set by the ear; the hornet’s nest is stirred. Your field of poppies and daisies, O Khalid, is miraculously transformed into a pit of furious grey spectres and howling red spirits. And still you wait in the tribune until the storm subside? Fool, fool! Art now in a civilised assembly? Hast thou no eyes to see, no ears to hear?
“Reactionist! Infidel! Innovator! Wahhabi! Slay him! Kill him!”—Are these likely to subside the while thou wait? By the tomb of St. John there, get thee down, and quickly. Bravo, Shakib!—He rushes to the tribune, drags him down by the jubbah, and, with the help of another