“An instrument in the hands of some American speculators, who would build skyscrapers on the ruins of our mosques,” wrote another. “A lever with which England is undermining al-Islam,” cried a voice in India. “A base one in the service of some European coalition, who, under the pretext of preaching the spiritualities, is undoing the work of the Revolution. The gibbet is for ordinary traitors; for him the stake,” etc. , etc.
On the other hand, he is hailed as the expected one—the true leader, the real emancipator—“who has in him the soul of the East and the mind of the West, the builder of a great Asiatic Empire.” Of course, the foolish Damascene editor who wrote this had to flee the country the following day. But Khalid’s eyes lingered on that line. He read it and reread it over and over again—forward and backward, too. He juggled, so to speak, with its words.
How often people put us, though unwittingly, on the path we are seeking, he thought.
How often does a chance word uttered by a stranger reveal to us our deepest aims and purposes.
Before him was ink and paper. He took up the pen.
But after scrawling and scribbling for ten minutes, the sheet was filled with circles and arabesques, and the one single word Dowla (Empire).
He could not think: he could only dream. The soul of the East—The mind of the West—the builder of a great Empire. The triumph of the Idea, the realisation of a great dream: the rise of a great race who has fallen on evil days; the renaissance of Arabia; the reclaiming of her land; the resuscitation of her glory;—and why not? especially if backed with American millions and the love of a great woman. He is enraptured. He