MECCA was a cauldron of argumentation and mysterious stabbings. The camps had not yet been clearly formed, and it was dangerous to say “I believe” or “I doubt.” Believers and doubters alike had their faces set, and their hands upon the handles of the semicircular knives which protruded out of their wide belts.

“Neither nod nor shake your head, Kotikokura. We are strangers from far-off countries passing through Arabia. We have not heard of Mohammed, the new Prophet, but are certain that truth will conquer.”

Kotikokura grinned.

“Truth always conquers, Kotikokura, for that which conquers is truth.”

But if my lips were tightly sealed, my ears were opened wide and attuned to the whisperings, as well as to the tumult of the storm.

‘Was Jesus, Mohammed? Was Mohammed, Jesus?’ I must face my destiny. The uncertainty was intolerable. But where was Mohammed? Neither the believers nor his enemies could tell with precision. The former promised that he would soon appear, a dazzling prince at the head of a great army, leading them to victory; the latter laughed ironically, and called him a coward, hiding behind the skirts of his women, afraid to face them.

Meanwhile, the name of Abu-Bekr crawled into the argumentations, subtly, quietly, with something of an ominous significance. No one knew how powerful or how weak Mohammed’s father-in-law might be: no one could tell when or how he had acquired his wealth, nor what had prompted him years ago to give his daughter into marriage to a mere stripling, almost destitute. And now that his daughter was dead, and Mohammed remarried for the third time,—what were the relations between the two? They could neither praise nor condemn Abu-Bekr. He eluded them like water that one tries in vain to keep in one’s fist.

I sought out Abu-Bekr. I won his confidence by quoting ancient prophecies announcing the coming of the Messiah. I offered him my wealth for his camels. The old man was moved. We became blood brothers. Abu-Bekr consented to lead me to the hiding-place of Mohammed.

“Follow me, Cartaphilus.”

Abu-Bekr led the way through a subterranean passage which meandered in various directions. At every turn, a watchman demanded the password. Abu-Bekr answered each one differently, and each one replied: “Allah is God, and Mohammed is His Prophet.”

We climbed several steps and found ourselves in a large room, which led into other rooms by openings on the right and left. Afterwards, I discovered that the roof of the house was completely covered by a vine, which hid its existence, and that there was no other entrance save the circuitous catacomb.

“Allah is God and Mohammed is His Prophet,” Abu Bekr called out. A slave appeared and bowed three times. “Tell the Prophet I must speak to him.” A few minutes later, the slave reappeared. “The Prophet—may his name prosper forever—has converse with the Archangel Gabriel.”

He bent three times to the floor, and we did likewise. “The Prophet will see you as soon as the Archangel returns to the Throne of God.”

We entered the room to our right. A middle-aged man was reclining on a couch. A pretty girl, one of his wives or concubines, was anointing his head and washing his beard with perfume.

“Mohammed, my son, and Prophet of Allah, I have brought a stranger with me,—Cartaphilus, a great merchant of India.” I used the Latin form of my name by preference.

Mohammed motioned to the girl, who walked out immediately. I felt a curious dizziness. Was it merely my own excitement, or the presence of him whose return would mean my destruction, as long ago it had meant my life?

Mohammed raised his eyes. They were very black and dazzling. But they were not the eyes of the Nazarene!

“Welcome, Cartaphilus.”

His voice was deep and vibrant. But it was not the voice of Jesus! My faintness disappeared. He bade us sit down, and ordered sweets for us.

“Has the Angel of Allah visited you today, my son?”

“He has.”

“Is it permissible for our ears, Prophet of Allah, to hear the angelic message?”

Mohammed looked at me critically.

“Our sacred books,” I said, “foretell the advent of the true Prophet…who was born in the desert…they were dictated by God himself.”

“I know. So were the words that Moses carved on the tablets of stone. Jesus, too, heard God.”

“Moses,” I remarked, “was a great lawgiver. Jesus was a young prophet who had heard merely the beginning of the prophecy and mistook its purpose.”

Mohammed caressed his beard. His hand was large and fleshy. It was not the hand of Jesus.

Abu-Bekr smiled, closing his eyes slowly. “How should it be otherwise, my son, if a man dies so young? Do not all our books speak of the wisdom of old age, and the errors of youth?”

“Every great event is foreshadowed by a lesser one. Jesus is the moon, Mohammed the sun,” I added.

‘If he is Jesus,’ I thought, ‘it matters not if I belittle him. If he is not Jesus…he shall be the sword with which I destroy the Nazarene! Attila was merely a warrior. The sword rusts in its scabbard or breaks with usage. Mohammed is a man of words…words dictated by an angel, directly descended from Heaven! Words rust not.’

“Jesus spoke beautifully,” Mohammed remarked.

“Beautifully? Who heard him, Prophet of Allah?” I asked. “His disciples were long dead before the words were put upon parchment.”

“Besides,” interrupted Abu-Bekr, “what does it mean? The poets speak beautifully. Are they, for that reason, the true prophets of Allah? Shall a man speak beautifully, or truly?”

“Truth shuns beauty, knowing that she ensnares like a woman,” Mohammed replied.

Would Jesus have spoken thus? Mohammed spoke as a man of worldly experience, and with something of the bitterness which is the heritage of all who have known the joy and the profound disillusion of sex. No. These were not the words of Jesus!

“Woman is the mother and mistress of man. She must be faithful and obedient to him,” Mohammed added.

“How true, Prophet of Allah! But what has Jesus said of woman? Did he not accept a gift of the courtesan and forgive the woman taken in adultery?”

Mohammed clenched his fist. “Against those of your women who commit adultery, call four witnesses among yourselves, and if these bear witness, then keep the woman in the house till death release her, so God has ordered.”

“The words of the Prophet are full of wisdom.”

“And God has also commanded this to the wives of the Prophet: O wives of the Prophet, whosoever of you shall commit a manifest wickedness, the punishment thereof shall be double!”

“Jesus forgave Mary instead of punishing her. Was he a true prophet?” I asked.

His eyes blazed, his heavy lips pouted.

No, he was not Jesus, or if Jesus, so changed that he remembered neither himself nor me.

“Prophet of Allah,” I said, “is it true that Europe is nearly all Christian?”

“It is, Cartaphilus.”

“The boundaries between Europe and Asia are no longer very formidable. I have heard that even the great wall that encircles the Celestial Empire yields to the hoofs of horses and camels.”

“They who wait to be attacked are already half conquered,” added Abu-Bekr.

“If Christianity has conquered Europe and converted the descendants of Attila– —”

“May his name be cursed!” exclaimed Abu-Bekr.

“Then,” I continued, “is Arabia safe?”

Mohammed listened intently, smoothening his black beard. His large chest rose and sank quickly.

“Christianity is the religion of woman, Prophet of Allah…woman glorified and forgiven.”

“Woman is the servant of man!” Mohammed exclaimed.

“Christianity belittles man. It condemns the sword. It sanctifies the eunuch!”