as hard as did the masons and hod-carriers who laboured on these
pyramids.' And I believe him. For is not a book greater than a
pyramid? Is not a mosque or a palace better than a tomb? An object is
great in proportion to its power of resistance to time and the
elements. That is why we think the pyramids are great. But see, the
desert is greater than the pyramids, and the sea is greater than the
desert, and the heavens are greater than the sea. And yet, there is
not in all these that immortal intelligence, that living, palpitating
soul, which you find in a great book. A man who conceives and writes a
great book, my friend, has done more work than all the helots that
laboured on these pyramidal futilities. That is why I find no
exaggeration in Khalid's words. For when he loafs, he does so in good
earnest. Not like the camel-driver there or the camel, but after the
manner of the great thinkers and mystics: like Al-Fared and
Jelal'ud-Deen Rumy, like Socrates and St. Francis of Assisi, Khalid
loafs. For can you escape being reproached for idleness by merely
working? Are you going to waste your time and power in useless
unproductive labour, carrying dates to Hajar (or coals to Newcastle,
which is the English equivalent), that you might not be called an
idler, a loafer?"

"Indeed not," we reply; "for the Poet taking in the sea, or the woods,
or the starry-night, the poet who might be just sharing the sunshine
with the salamander, is as much a labourer as the stoker or the
bricklayer."

And with a few more such remarks, we showed our friend that, not being
of india-rubber, we could not but expand under the heat of his
grandiosity.

We then make our purpose known, and Shakib is overjoyed. He offers to
kiss us for the noble thought.

"Yes, Europe should know Khalid better, and only through you and me
can this be done. For you can not properly understand him, unless you
read the _Histoire Intime_, which I have just finished. That will give
you _les dessous de cartes_ of his character."

"_Les dessons_"--and the Poet who intersperses his Arabic with fancy
French, explains.--"The lining, the ligaments."--"Ah, that is exactly
what we want."

And he offers to let us have the use of his Manuscript, if we link his
name with that of his illustrious Master in this Book. To which we
cheerfully agree. For after all, what's in a name?

On the following day, lugging an enormous bundle under each arm, the
Poet came. We were stunned a