"No; but I can not sleep." "That is amusing. And do you take me for a soporific? If you think you can sleep here, stretch yourself on the couch and try." Saying which, she laughed and hurried back to her bed. "I did not come to sleep." "What then? How lovely of you to wake me up so early.--No, no; don't apologise. For truly, I too, could not sleep. You see, I was still reading. Sit on the couch there and talk to me.--Of course, you may smoke.--No, I prefer to sit in bed." Khalid lights another cigarette and sits down. On the table before him are some antique colour prints which Mrs. Gotfry had bought in the Bazaar. These one can only get in Damascus. And--strange coincidence!--they represented some of the heroes of Arabia--Antar, Ali, Saladin, Harûn ar-Rashid--done in gorgeous colouring, and in that deliciously ludicrous angular style which is neither Arabic nor Egyptian, but a combination perhaps of both. Khalid reads the poetry under each of them and translates it into English. Mrs. Gotfry is charmed. Khalid is lost in thought. He lays the picture of Saladin on the table, lights another cigarette, looks intently upon his friend, his face beaming with his dream. "Jamilah." It was the first time he called her by her first name--an Arabic name which, as a Bahaist she had adopted. And she was neither surprised nor displeased. "We need another Saladin to-day,--a Saladin of the Idea, who will wage a crusade, not against Christianity or Mohammedanism, but against those Tataric usurpers who are now toadying to both." "Whom do you mean?"