“Christ is the Son of God,” I maintained.
Djimlah, too, stood by her belief. “Allah had no children of the flesh. Christ was only a prophet—and He was second to Mohammed.”
A brilliant idea came to me. “You know, Djimlah,” I explained, “I am not talking of Allah, I am talking of God.”
“They are all the same,” she asserted. “There is but one Heaven and one Earth, and one Sun and one Moon. Therefore there is but one God, and that is Allah, and we are His children.”
I was staggered by her confident tone. Djimlah with her words had made of me a Mohammedan and an infidel—something religiously unclean and unspeakable. And, what is more, she was unconscious of the enormity of her speech: she was excitedly watching the lightning, now making all sorts of arabesques on the sky.
“Watch, darling, watch!” she cried. “I know now what the storm is. It is fireworks, Allah’s fireworks!”
“Fireworks—foolishness!” I exclaimed peevishly; for I was sorely hurt at the idea of her being on equal terms with me before God. “God is not frivolous—He does not want any fireworks. He is vastly busy watching the world, and guiding the destinies of the human race.”
“Why should He watch and guide?” Djimlah said proudly. “He knows everything from the beginning; for He writes it on the foreheads of people. My destiny is written here,” she pointed to her forehead, “and yours is written there.” She tapped my forehead.
I hated her, and crossly pushed her finger from my forehead.
“He doesn’t,” I cried, “for He leaves us free to choose whether we shall be brave or cowardly, whether we shall do good or evil.”