Giafar al Barmeki
Author: Samuel Spring
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

GIAFAR AL BARMEKI,

A TALE

OF THE

COURT OF HAROUN AL RASCHID.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

NEW-YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, 82 CLIFF-STREET.
———
1836.

[Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1836, by
Harper & Brothers,
in the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New-York.]

VOLUME I.

PREFACE.

————

The incident upon which the following narration is based, first fell under the author's eye while hastily perusing D'Herbelot's Bibliothèque Orientale. It may be found in that entertaining and instructive epitome of Eastern history and manners, under the article "Abassa;" by referring to which, the reader will discover that, excepting in a single particular, historical truth has been strictly adhered to in the work now presented to his notice.

GIAFAR AL BARMEKI.

————

CHAPTER I.

"Their feet had trod the burning sand Of lone Arabia's desert land, Obedient to the will divine To kneel at Mecca's holy shrine; And kingly lips have prese'd the sod, Where knelt the prophet of their God."

All that vast plain, which is enclosed and watered by those celebrated rivers of antiquity, the Euphrates and the Tigris, hence called by the ancients Mesopotamia, and since, for the same reason, named by the Arabians Al Gezira, or The Island, is a desolate, and to the eye an almost boundless desert. Few roam over its bosom, save the hardy Arab, to whom habit has rendered its terrors harmless; the plodding merchant, with his well-laden camels, bartering safety and quiet for sweet gain; or perchance the solitary pilgrim, seeking or returning from the holy city, and with a devotion worthy a purer faith, sustaining with patience, or confronting with fearlessness, the privations and dangers of that perilous journey.

In the year of the Hegira one hundred and eighty-five, a band of travellers, far different in outward garb and numbers from either just mentioned, might have been seen crossing westwardly this plain, a few hours' journey below Bagdad. Their way was toilsome and weary. It lay over a waste of glazed and shining sand, that reflected with redoubled power the meridian rays which a summer's sun was pouring down upon their path. Light winds breathed occasionally from the west, cooling the sultry air of the desert. Yet grateful as was their refreshing influence, they often became the sources of serious annoyance; for when increased beyond even a moderate degree of violence, they raised the dust in clouds, covering the shrinking forms of the travellers with a shower of its heated and penetrating particles. Indeed, the bosom of a summer's lake is not more easily ruffled by the breeze, than is the surface of that unstable soil agitated and blown abroad by the currents of wind which stream across it.

On all sides was extended an even plain of sand, its monotony varied only by an occasional group of palm trees, some mound of ancient ruins, or heaps of loose soil blown into waves, where "the north wind and the south had weaved the twisted sand." Far behind might be seen the majestic Euphrates, winding its slow and serpentine way across the plain. Before them, marking the course of the river Tigris, stretched a strip of date trees, with which were intermingled the bay and juniper, while here and there were scattered the beautiful andrachne, enlivening, with its bright red bark and gay flowers, the dark foliage with which it was surrounded.

Shining through the trees was seen the Arrow,* as it is poetically called, hurrying along its swift current, remarkable for the light colour of its waters. Beyond the river, commenced again the vast desert, bounded to the north and west by the snow-clad mountains of Khourdistan.

[*The Tigris, so called from the Persian teir (arrow).]

Two rode foremost of the train, who from their dress and bearing seemed its leaders. They were mounted upon choice Arabian horses, which, though somewhat deficient in size, possessed in a remarkable degree that fleetness and endurance so necessary in an animal to whose powers man's life is oft intrusted, over those wild and dangerous wastes.

After these, seated upon camels, rode a small but venerable band. Their faces, which seemed in gravity and sagacity to rival those of the patient animals which they bestrode, their flowing white beards, reaching below their girdles, and their robes of blue, proclaimed them dervises.

Next followed fourscore horsemen, splendidly arrayed. The bright mail which they wore was in part shielded from the sun's rays by robes of crimson silk, that were fastened about their waists with rich girdles of the same material. Suspended at their saddle bows might be seen their shining bonnets of steel, whose places were for the time supplied by red silken turbans, whence the name which in after times they acquired of Kezel Bash (red heads). Loose trousers, of a light yellow or buff colour, tied closely about the ankle, and richly embroidered sandals, completed their apparel.

Their weapons were a long lance, borne or poised in the right hand, a crooked scimitar suspended from the girdle, and a longer but straight sword which lay across the saddle under the right thigh. In addition to these, each wore at his girdle in front a short poniard, the hilt of which was richly set with jewels, a weapon more for ornament than utility, although occasionally it might be serviceable in close encounter, or redeem the life of a prostrate warrior.

Their horses were of the Turcoman breed. Scarcely inferior in speed and hardiness to those above described, they moved with that proud step and loftiness of carriage, which in the war horse is a quality so desirable and imposing. They possessed also size and strength, sufficient to support with ease, and display to advantage, the sumptuous and even cumbrous furniture which they were accustomed to bear. The reins by which they were guided were embroidered with silk, and enriched with jewels of different kinds and value, such as pearls, rubies, turquoises, or emeralds, as the fancy of the rider prompted, or his means permitted him. Attached to the saddle bow of each warrior were a hammer and nail, both of gold,[1] with which, upon dismounting, they fastened the bridle of their steeds to the ground; for in the deserts which they often traversed, no tree or shrub was to be found which might answer a purpose so necessary.

Their large saddles, though imposing in appearance, seemed inconvenient for close array, and unwieldy for nice and rapid evolution, objections which were equally applicable to their immensely broad stirrups.

They were matched in height and nearly so in years. The sun, in its course from China's wall to the great empire of Charlemagne, looks not upon another such array of horsemen. They were a portion of the body guard of Haroun al Raschid. At their head that renowned monarch had decided the fortune of many a hard-fought day; with their powerful aid he had oft snatched victory from the arms of defeat, and rendered his name terrible to the foes of Islamism.

Next came a band of black eunuchs, dressed in white, with shawls of India girded around their waists, and bracelets and collars of gold, marks of splendid slavery, richly contrasting with the pure jet of their skins. Each held in his right hand a naked scimitar, of the most polished and highly tempered material, and the scabbards, which hung empty at their sides, were of pure gold, highly enchased, and wrought by the most skilful artisans. In addition to these, sheathless poniards slept at their girdles.

After these followed by far the fairest and most interesting portion of the train. They were concealed in palanquins, a species of litter, suspended between two camels, and shaded by a canopy of fine brocade, which was borne along by the arms of eight brawny slaves. These served alike to shield the fair creatures they enclosed from the scorching influence of the sun, and to defend them from the rude glances of man, both equally dreaded by those who have the care of beauty in those burning and jealous climes. There was nothing in the external appearance of these moving prisons, for such indeed they appeared, to strike the beholder with interest, though they seemed framed with every regard to the comfort of their lovely occupants. Yet, in truth, one glance behind the drapery of those curtained walls were worth the whole array of splendour that has been described.

Camels laden with provisions, and all the accoutrements necessary for a long and painful journey, slaves with led horses, straggling pilgrims who had joined the train for safety, thronged in succession upon the road, while a band of well-appointed horsemen brought up the rear.

There is something strange and incongruous about this party, this mingling of women, priests, and warriors. What do they here, travelling the sultry desert? Pilgrims they are, returning from the sacred city of Mecca. They have paid their adorations at the shrine of the Kaaba.[2] They have drunk of the holy well Zemzem, whose waters a watchful angel disclosed to the weeping Hagar, when the father of their race lay a thirsting infant in the wilderness. Purified from sin, they are returning to their homes, filled with high thoughts of the goodness of Allah and the sacred duties of religion, but soon again to enter upon the busy world, that theatre of sin, that scene of crime and sorrow.

The elder of the two warriors who headed the train was about forty years of age. His appearance was noble and majestic. His broad expanded forehead seemed the seat of strong intellectual powers; and piercing black eyes, which shot their sharp flashes from underneath pent, overhanging brows, indicated correctly the vigour and vivacity of their owner's character. About the corners of his eyes were many wrinkling lines, marks which indulged merriment had left imprinted there; and when he laughed, which he often did in mirth, but oftener in scorn, from amid the mask of a coal-black beard were disclosed teeth of a pearly whiteness, which added not a little to the comeliness of his appearance.

There were but few marks about the dress of this individual which denoted his rank, nor was the presence of these necessary to assure the spectator of his high station and character. Royalty had stamped its impress upon his commanding features; his port and mien proclaimed him at once a monarch. The same also did a cluster of priceless jewels which sparkled in his turban. These told what, but not who he was. There were, however, some tokens about his person, which declared the individuality, as well as the rank of their wearer. One, and the principal of these, was a plain scimitar, of large size and singular shape, which hung at his side. It was the far-famed Samsamah,[3] a weapon of fabulous renown, as celebrated throughout the Eastern world as the good sword Joyeuse in the West, for the prodigies it had wrought in the hands of his rival and cotemporary Charlemagne. Another of these was the casque which was suspended at his saddle bow, upon which were engraved the words haggion azzon (Strong is the pilgrim's arm). The bearer of that helmet and sword was Haroun al Raschid. Friends knew them well, and in the darkness of battle foes had often read the motto upon that crest by the light of that flashing blade. In addition to these, and with equal clearness, the discipline and gallant equipment of his followers disclosed the title of their leader. They wore, as it were, the livery of that just, that generous, that heroic calif.

His companion was many years younger. He was well formed, and possessed a fine and impressive countenance. Richly dressed, strikingly dignified, perhaps haughty in all his actions, he seemed born to command; yet in his deportment towards the calif he almost practised the servility of a slave.

"It is indeed so, Giafar," said the Commander of the Faithful to his companion. "The toils of a journey such as we have accomplished, were well repaid by that self-approbation, that confidence in the Divine favour, which are inspired by the performance of a duty so sacred, did these feelings endure. But how fleeting are they! How soon will sin and passion weigh down and deaden these bosoms, which are now so light, so fresh, so free from sorrow!"

"Life," replied the vizier (for such was his rank), "in its ordinary round of business and enjoyment, brings to us trials too strong for our resistance; and when to these are superadded the temptations of rank, its pleasures and its cares, what wonder is there if at times its possessor fails in some part of those high duties which he owes to Heaven?"

"Better to part, then, with crown and kingdom," said the calif, "if to do thus would give a title worth more than that of king. Honour and power are 'light as an insect's wing,' and he that seeks and values them is lighter still than they. When I put off these garments, and clothed myself with the sacred veil, I felt as though I had left with them all sin and care. I fear, lest with the ornaments of my rank I may have taken up pride and ambition, or cruelty with my steel sword."

"Shadow of God upon earth," replied the vizier, moved by the earnestness with which the calif had addressed him, "these are not the days of the prophets. Holy men there are dwelling here below, who have in some part attained that purity to which we are commanded to aspire. But who is perfect, who is free from frailty and passion? The duties of thy sacred office are arduous—"

"Too much so for mortal," interrupted the calif.

"Our blessed Prophet," continued the vizier, "(upon whom be salvation and the peace of God), alone has perfectly sustained them. Why, then, should thy soul reproach thee, if thou bendest under a burden which no mortal save him could support? If thou failest in aught, there are prayers, alms, fasting, and, above all, the sacred pilgrimage, to atone for thine errors, and purify thee before the Most High."

"True, true; thy words are balm to me, Giafar," exclaimed the monarch. "And to scatter the foes of our holy religion, to extend its proffers to those wretches who are destitute of its blessings, merits not this somewhat?"

"Much, nay, more than all," replied the vizier; "for says not the Koran, 'Do ye reckon the giving of drink to pilgrims, and the visiting the holy temple, to be actions as meritorious as those performed by him, who believeth in God, and in the last day, and fighteth for the religion of the Most High?' "

"Thou hast rightly spoken," said the calif. "And well pleased am I, if with this arm I can accomplish aught to the benefit of our most holy religion, or which may redound to the glory of its blessed author. Five times have I worshipped at Mecca (peace dwell within its walls!), and as often have I routed mine enemies in the field. Never have I returned from this sacred journey, but Heaven has had work for me to do."

"It hath strangely chanced," exclaimed the vizier.

"Out upon thy lack of faith!" replied the calif. "The decrees of Allah are from eternity, and concerning the smallest matter chance has no power."

"The arm of the high priest of our religion is strong, and the foes of Islamism may well tremble at its might; but if thou hadst never clothed thyself with a pilgrim's garments, if thou hadst never bowed before the shrine visited by true believers, wouldst thou shun the enemy and the oppressor? No; thou wouldst head thy brave warriors, and with myself at thy side, charge the infidels as thou art wont."

"I should! I should!" exclaimed the calif. "By the beard of Abbas! my bosom is warming at the thought." Then checking himself he added, "Ever ready is the proud soul of man, to take upon himself the merit of his good deeds. But it becomes thee not, Giafar, to stand like a tempter at my side, encouraging those feelings, which now at least should be steadily repressed. There is no strength in this arm, save as it comes from the Most High. His blessing be upon us."

As he said this, the royal pilgrim dismounted from his horse, and turning his face towards the holy city, bowed himself with the deepest humility to the earth, while he paid his adorations to the Supreme. His companion followed his example, and many of the train, pausing upon their way, recited short verses from the Koran, or the profession of their faith, and from the lips of all were heard breaking, "God is good! God is great!" and other expressions of devotional feeling.

With such emotions had the band described, or most of the individuals composing it, proceeded upon their route from Mecca. As they approached Bagdad, however, the thoughts of home, and its expected pleasures, projected plans for business and intrigue, were fast infringing upon those bosoms, which had of late been tenanted and rendered sacred by devotion. Instead of a continual sense of duty, there were long and frequent intervals in their fidelity to Heaven, from which they were only aroused at the hour of prayer, or at the exhortation of some good imam. The torch seemed to burn with an unsteady flame, its uncertain and flickering light soon to be entirely extinguished under a mass of joys, anxieties, and all the varied passions that crowd upon the soul. Thus many leave the temple of God, awed by the sanctity of the place, or awakened by the impressive performance of the holy rites. Their hearts are, for the moment, filled with awe and devotion, but as their steps lead them farther and farther from the place where these emotions have been engendered, with diminished power do they linger in their bosoms, until the cares, or yet sooner the joys of earth, have banished afar all thoughts of heaven.

————

CHAPTER II.

This world of tents, and domes, and sun-bright armory! Princely pavilions, screen'd by many a fold; Steeds with their housings of rich silver spun, Their chains and poitrels glittering in the sun; And camels, tufted o'er with Yemen's shells, Shaking in every breeze their light-toned bells.

Lalla Rookh.

The route of the travellers had led them over the ruins of ages. The path which they had traversed was strewn with the monuments of years long past. Many a scene of desolation was crossed, which spoke with emphasis of the instability of fortune, and told the vanity of this world's greatness more forcibly to the pilgrims, than the most impressive chapter of the Koran.

On the banks of the "great river," the river Euphrates, they had trodden and wondered amid the ruins of ancient Babylon, "the glory of kingdoms, the beauty of the Chaldees' excellency." In the plain of Shinar, they had gazed upon the remains of Babel's ancient tower, that enduring monument of human presumption; and if some had a tear for the wickedness of mankind, many too had a smile for their folly. For to them who could view afar the mountains of Khourdistan, lifting their proud summits into that heaven which the vain builders had aspired to reach, it seemed strange indeed that they should have reared their place of refuge upon a plain so level and so low. Occasionally their march was interrupted by an aqueduct or trench, vestiges of Grecian or of Roman industry, through which the waters of the higher bed of the Euphrates mingled with those of its rival stream, irrigating the parched and sandy soil through which it found a passage. Hardly a step was taken but the foot trod upon some new wonder, furnishing theme for admiration, and food for serious and sage discourse.

Turning northwardly, they now followed the course of the Tigris, passing upon the right hand the ruins of Seleucia, whose rise had in a great measure contributed to the desolation of that immense city just spoken of. Upon the opposite bank of the river, were the site and vestiges of the Ctesiphon of the Parthians, which had in its turn avenged the wrongs of Babylon upon the abode of the Macedonian Seleucus, and on its ruins were crumbling the ruins of Persian Modain. Yet amid this scene of desolation, one proud edifice was seen rearing itself above the scattered remnants of antiquity. It was the palace of Khoshroes Nourshivan, standing untouched, uninjured by the withering hand of time, which even to this day, if travellers' tales be true, has respected its venerable walls. "Time spares the works of the just man," says the proverb; "for see! the palace of Nourshivan still stands amid the ruins of Modain."

This lofty structure was visible upon the horizon's edge, looming like an immense pile through the heated and refracting atmosphere of the desert. A forest of gigantic trees seemed to surround it, for so were magnified the stinted shrubs that skirted the plain, a delusion not uncommon in eastern countries about midday.

The calif pointed out the scene to his vizier, and sighing profoundly, said,

"There, Giafar, is a name worth living for; the power of the mightiest, the glory of the most warlike, sink into nothing before that title, 'The Just.' I would part with my whole kingdom to possess it."

" 'Tis thine, my lord," replied the vizier. "Al Raschid* need not envy the fame of mortal."

[*The Just.]

"Thou flatterest me, Giafar," said the monarch. "My subjects have indeed bestowed upon me that title, but shall I leave behind me a memorial of my works, lasting as those walls?"

"Doubt it not, my most noble master," said the vizier. "Ages must pass away, ere the great, the just Haroun shall be forgotten; ere he shall cease to be an example for princes, or his name fade from the memory of mankind."

"Could I believe as thou wouldst fain persuade me," replied the monarch, "did I think that this fair fame were indeed mine, willingly would I resign my crown into other hands. I should fear lest some unwary action, prompted by passion or by pride, might in a moment tarnish my renown, and blacken its fair surface. And yet," he added, after a moment's hesitation, "it may not be. The burden is fastened upon my shoulders, I must carry it to the journey's end."

A short silence ensued, which was broken by Haroun.

"The hours of this pilgrimage have passed pleasantly away. Accompanied by thee, by my wife Zobeide, and my daughter, whom I love as a jewel of great price, they have equalled the most delightful moments of the harem, nay, have surpassed them, for thou hast participated in their enjoyment. It may be we have sinned in this, for in the pilgrim pleasure should give place to feelings of penitence and humility—Allah, pardon our offences!—yet I grieve that they are so soon to end. Dost thou not regret it, Giafar?"

"I can never forget them, my lord," said the young prince, slightly colouring; "they will be to me like a dream, which haunts the mind of the sleeper long after the slumber has passed away, that brought the sweet vision to his senses."

"All happiness seems a dream," said the calif.

"Our misfortunes alone appear to be realities. The happiest hours are as though they were not, but the passage of misfortune over the soul leaves imprinted there its traces, and we cannot doubt the reality of those ills, over which we still grieve. How I shall wish for thee, Giafar, after our return! It is true, I shall see thee in the divan of council, and at the chase; I shall find thee at my side in the thick fight, or before me, it may chance—nay, thou hast been often there; we may roam together the streets of the city, watching over the morals and manners of my people, but in my hours of retirement, I shall look for thee in vain. In the sacred retreat of the harem thou canst not enter. I would it were otherwise."

Signs of joy were visible in the countenance of the vizier, as he listened to these expressions of his master's affection, and more than once he would have pressed his lips to the hem of his robe, but as often the hand of the calif restrained him. "Away with these vain ceremonies!" he exclaimed, "these forms with which my rank surrounds me—I am weary of them. Be a brother to me—yet not so," he added as his mind reverted to the past. "They are false and treacherous. A son, perhaps—but now leave me. I would be alone. See if the princesses are well attended. The sun yet shines burningly, and the covering of a travelling pavilion is not like the spreading roof, and latticed windows of their own home. This must be cared for. They may need repose ere entering the city."

Joyfully did Prince Giafar turn to execute the commands of his master. He hastened to the litter which contained the beautiful Zobeide. A sign from her mute attendant warned him that she slept, and he passed on to that which bore the Princess Abassa. Reining up his steed, he hesitated as though fearful of disturbing the fair being therein concealed, and then, in a voice which respect and timidity rendered scarce audible, inquired if she were not weary, and then proposed that the caravan should halt, while they took a few moments' rest.

A slight agitation of the curtains was seen, a rustling as of silken garments heard, and then a voice of surpassing melody said, "Thanks to the kind care of our protectors, we feel no weariness, and need no repose. I think, indeed, we but ill obey the precepts of our most holy Prophet. Little of toil or danger do we encounter, no self-denial do we practise in our pilgrimage, but thou, Prince Giafar, and my beloved father, ye merit indeed the blessing of Allah. Daring danger, enduring fatigue, ye win, as it were, from Heaven, forgiveness of your sins."

"Think not, lady," said the prince, "that bodily penance can atone for error. The venerable men who precede us would tell you far otherwise. The strong in frame might endure suffering, under which the weak powers would sink, yet one act of true devotion, a single tear of sorrow and repentance, from a being like thee, would outweigh it all!"

"Is self-privation nothing?" replied the princess. "Merits not more he who in poverty, on foot, and alone, dares the fatigues and dangers of this desert, than one who, surrounded by comforts, and in all ease crosses its perilous road?"

"Poverty and misfortune," said the prince, "when supported with a humble spirit, chasten the soul, and render it deserving of reward. 'Happy,' says the Koran, 'are they who from the bosom of poverty cry out, We are the children of God, we shall return to him.' But pride and self-esteem are as often covered by the rags of the beggar, as by the robe of the prince. Vanity and desire for this world's favour are often mingled with the performance of our holiest duties, taking from their worth, and diminishing the merit which they otherwise would find in the eyes of Heaven. How often does the pilgrim put on the ihram* from motives ill befitting the sacredness of his calling, that he may obtain the respect of mankind, that the venerable name of hadgi† may be his, when his soul should be wrapped in devotion, and all his care, how he best might worship Heaven, and deserve forgiveness for his sins."

[*The mantle of the pilgrim.]
[†Pilgrim.]

"Will my lord permit me to inquire," said the princess, "in what manner he has performed those duties which have led him to the sacred city."

"Question me not, noble princess," answered Giafar; "a lesson of virtue, it is easy to read, but most difficult to practise. My obligations to religion have been fulfilled, as best I could, but there are thoughts that cannot be banished, images which perpetually haunt the imagination, and enter perforce into the soul, even when religion, Heaven, and all things sacred are claiming its entire possession."

"Thy thoughts, then, have been away in Bagdad, with thy friends at home?"

"Not so, fairest princess," was the hesitating reply. "With the steps of thy camels they have crossed the desert by day, and at night have stood sentinels before thy tent until the morning." The voice of the young prince faltered as he spoke, and a sigh, unheard by him, agitated the silken covering which hid from his sight the loveliest creature that the realm of Persia contained.

Silence ensued, and the train moved noiselessly upon its course.

"Prince!"

"I am at thy side, fair lady."

"How far distant is Bagdad?"

"A few short hours' ride. Thou mayst soon see its towers. The Tigris rolls its waters upon our right, and the bright sun is shining upon a scene which thou wouldst love to look upon."

A fair hand parted the curtain of the pavilion, and Abassa, veiled, looked forth. At this moment, having passed a bend in the river, the city appeared full in view, with its gilded domes, its towers, and minarets, flashing afar like a "grove of waving scimitars."

"That, then, is Bagdad?" said Abassa.

"It is," was the reply. "You may distinguish hence your father's palace, for it rears itself above the loftiest domes of the city."

"I see a mass of towers and clustered walls, but can discern nothing distinctly. Yet what are those?" said the princess; and she pointed out to Giafar, as she spoke, a range of low tents which were extended beyond them, upon the border of the river.

"I had overlooked them," replied the vizier. "By Allah! they are warriors encamped. I can discern the glittering of their armour, and, as I live, the Roman eagle flutters over their tents. I know that standard well. In the name of the Prophet! what can this mean? I had thought as soon to see heaven and earth meet, as that boastful bird take its flight over these plains. Surely thy father must have seen them, and yet we move steadily along."

"Go to him," exclaimed the princess. "Be near him, warn him of the danger."

"Danger!" replied the vizier, proudly, "there is none. We have naught to fear from those Christian dogs. They have felt, too often, the edge of our scimitars, to dare their temper again. Fear nothing. I will seek thy father, and instantly return." He bowed to his horse's mane, and turned to depart.

The princess gazed steadily upon the encampment which had caused such dismay in her own mind, and such wonder on the part of her companion, and she heeded not that the light airs which, at intervals, hovered over them, had blown aside the veil which she wore, and that she was displaying beauties unparalleled to the gaze of the enraptured prince. She was leaning forward, peering into the distance. One white hand held back the curtain of the tent, while, with the other, she was shading her fine features from the rays of the sun. Both, as became her rank, were covered with jewels. The nails of her fingers were, at their roots, tinged with henna, not after the present unseemly fashion of the country, but so delicately, as would scarcely offend the taste of those most unused to the custom. Her dark brown hair, notwithstanding the restraint of a richly worked buckle, or species of tiara, fell in luxuriance upon her shoulders, while in front it was simply parted, and enveloped, in the form of a double crescent, her finely formed forehead. Glittering upon her brow, and half concealed by this arrangement of her tresses, shone a superb diamond, which had once sparkled in the hair of the Empress Irene. Her eyes were of a deep hazel colour, and their lids were fringed with long eyelashes, that imparted to them a soft and melting expression. These were painted with a sort of black unguent or collyrium, whose dark surface softened the rays of light in their passage to the eye, to which delicate organ they would else have been intolerable, reflected, as at times they were, from a sea of shining sand. Her nose was slightly aquiline; her mouth small and arched, like the bow of the Grecian cupid; her chin was that of a sculptured statue, perfectly formed, slightly projecting and dimpled. She was agitated, trembling, and the colour had left her cheeks; but the hand of beauty had moulded her features, and, with curious cunning, had there combined all the pride of her rank, with the softness of her sex.

More of her person than has been described was not visible, nor even this but at intervals, as the wind waved to and fro her veil of silk and gold. Yet more was not necessary to entrance the young prince. One action, and that involuntary, arrested the progress of his steed, which he had already urged upon the road, and then, as though touched by an enchanter's wand, he became motionless, and gazed upon her in silent and breathless admiration. Save the beautiful object before him, everything disappeared from his sight: his companions, the hostile encampment, the world, all but her. His own, and the exertions of his horse, in keeping the way seemed involuntary, or at least unnoticed by him. He heeded not the approach of a slave, who drew near with hurried steps, and was aroused only by the voice of Abassa exclaiming, "A messenger from my father. He has seen them, then, at last."

Turning as she said this, her eyes encountered those of the prince, which were fastened in rapture upon her unveiled features. Blushes covered her face as with a veil of crimson; an upbraiding, "Nay! my lord," came from her lips, and she hastily drew back into the solitude of her tent.

"Pardon, fairest princess, thine erring slave. His life is ready to atone for his error." No answer was returned, and by this time the slave was at his side, and signified to him that the calif desired his presence. Giafar loosed his rein, and in a moment was at his master's side.

"Well, Giafar," exclaimed the calif, "what new wonder have we here?"

"In truth, my lord," replied the vizier, "it is a riddle that I cannot read. They are Romans doubtless, as one may know by their array; but it passes my skill to say what should bring the knaves hither."

"Have we not wandered from the road, Giafar, and are we not approaching unwittingly some hostile city?"

"There flows the Tigris, yonder glitter the crescents upon the mosques of Bagdad, and there—"

" 'Tis enchantment! Ride on—ride on," said the calif, gayly, "within a lance's length, and they will vanish."

"Hold! my lord, one moment," exclaimed the prince. "Were it not well, ere we advance, to send a messenger, and demand their purpose?"

"Bear the message, then, thyself," interrupted the monarch, with a scornful laugh. "Go—ask of those infidels, if the lord of the land upon which they have set their tents may enter in peace into his own city?"

"We have in our charge, sire, treasures that surpass those of the East."

"Can we not guard them? Whither has flown thy pride, Giafar? Has the air of Arabia rusted thy scimitar, or hast thou left thy courage as well as sins at the holy temple?"

"Neither, my lord," said the prince. "My courage is undiminished, and my blade bright, as the foe shall see, when thou commandest me to draw it. But let us take some precautions for the safety of the princesses, ere we seek the encounter. It cannot be doubted but they far outnumber us."

"Were they ten to one," said the monarch, "I would not pause upon my path. And would to Heaven, that not only these treasures, but my crown and life, depended upon an encounter with those knaves!—their empire being equally at stake."

"As thou wilt, my lord," said the vizier. "It is thine to command."

"Ride on, then, in the Prophet's name."

At this moment their attention was directed to a cloud of dust far off upon the plain which stretched itself between them and the city. It approached rapidly. "Behold!" said the prince, "a messenger from my father."

"It is thy brother Fadhel, as I think," said Haroun. "None but one of his far-famed Kochlani could speed so fast."

In a few moments the individual in question was in sight. He came dashing along upon an Arabian of uncommon beauty, until within a few feet of the calif's person, when, with the skill of a practised horseman, he arrested his steed in mid career, and a fine-looking man in the prime of life dismounted, and prostrated himself before the Commander of the Faithful. "Welcome, most mighty sovereign," he exclaimed. "Lord of the East, welcome to thy slaves."

"Rise, Fadhel, rise," said the calif. "How fares thy good father? How fares the city? Nay, rise, keep us not from the path." Having kissed the hem of his master's robe, he rose, embraced his brother Giafar, then mounted and rode on. "Thou entertainest new guests during our absence," said the monarch.

"They are ambassadors from Constantinople, my lord."

"Ambassadors are they?" rejoined the calif, in a tone of disappointment; "they had near met with a rude reception. I should have liked to rouse the dogs. But is this thy hospitality? Couldst thou afford no better bestowal for the messengers of a mighty sovereign than these rude tents?"

" 'Twas a precaution of my venerable father's, to lodge them without the city," was the reply. "Their numbers are greater than should come upon an errand of peace, and some brawl with our jealous citizens were sure to occur during thine absence. If they are true soldiers, they will not grumble at their rude quarters."

"Should they do this, then, let them ever come with messages of peace. They are sent from the Empress Irene, thou sayst?"

" 'Tis rumoured, sire, that the empress is dead, and that they bring terms of peace from the new emperor."

"Ha! to renew the treaty, most like; to purchase a continuance of our friendship by a continuance of the tribute. Report says this, does it not?"

"Rumours come flying in upon us like the winds, yet in truth, my lord, I have not heard of this."

"Not heard of this!" replied the Commander of the Faithful, impatiently. "Be not so careful of thy news. Speak out; what hast thou heard of?"

"The most common rumour is (and yet it is but rumour), that the purpose of this embassy is to refuse the tribute on the part of the new emperor."

A frown darkened the calif's features for a moment; then smiling sternly he exclaimed,

"Say they so, then? and does the Christian dog howl after this sort? He needs the lash, and, by the beard of my father! he shall feel it." This was said in a tone of bitterness, that told how near the calif's heart lay the subject on which he spoke, and with what pious fervour he hated and despised the enemies of his faith.

They had by this time approached the tents of the Roman embassy. Clusters of arms and heaps of armour were piled around the encampment; horses were standing picketed near, but not a warrior was visible. Overcome by the severe heat of the climate, they were reposing within their tents, sunk in a state of lassitude, from which the approach of the pilgrim band could hardly arouse them. At last one, and then another, looked forth, until numerous unarmed and half-armed knights were gazing with ill-concealed wonder at the gallant array which passed them.

"Where are these warriors," exclaimed the calif, "who would threaten us so boldly? Our very sun seems to have subdued them. Ha! they look out upon us at last. Giafar, see that the men move cheerily and firmly on. Tell them that the eyes of infidels are upon them."

The march was toilsome. The yielding sand covered at each step the foot of man and beast. The ardent sun shone with a hue of blood, and though well past the meridian, poured down rays that were withering in their power, tinging with red the dull vapour of the desert, until the very atmosphere glowed as if on fire. The air was calm, yet occasionally gusts of wind came from the southern waste like the breath of a heated furnace, bearing along particles of fine dust or heated sand, which at times forced the hardiest warrior to conceal his face beneath his robe, though oftener he received them upon his averted back, shrinking yet unbent. But at a word from the vizier all toil was forgotten. Each rode more erect in his saddle and grasped his lance more firmly, or poised it with lighter hand; and the thought that foes were gazing on them seemed to inspire their very steeds. Fresh slaves bore the pavilions which shaded the princesses and their attendants, so that even their wearisome duty was performed with alacrity.

This gallant sight seemed to have roused the strangers. Many were seen to don their armour, and, as though rebuked of their indolence, a few rode forth, to scan more minutely their array, and for some time hovered upon the borders of their march. Yet no glance was bestowed upon them, unless the characteristic curiosity of their sex may have urged some tenant of those curtained litters to look stealthily forth upon the strangers. In all that band of warriors, not a face was averted, not a feature moved, not a hand was raised to wipe away the moisture which might be seen dripping plentifully from their brows. To the eyes of their wondering observers, they seemed stern and panoramic statues, borne along by the aid of some invisible machinery; to such perfection had their discipline been brought, and with such devotion were they wont to observe the commands of their leader.

"The drones have roused themselves at last," said Haroun. "In truth a goodly swarm. What reason, Fadhel, do they allege for coming in such numbers upon a peaceful errand?"

"The fear of robbers, and wandering Tartars, my lord," was the reply.

"Out upon the dogs!" exclaimed the monarch.

"No robbers tread within the confines of my kingdom, save themselves. No, 'tis a pretext false and flimsy. The emperor would intimidate me by the splendour of his array, by the number and excellence of his troops. Ha! by my life, but they shall quail before my throne. Giafar, see that no splendour be wanting to the reception of these Romans. Let the remembrance of their master's court be driven from their minds, and sink into insignificance when compared with mine."

"It shall be done, my lord," replied the prince; "thine enemies shall tremble before thee. Confusion shall cover their faces in thy presence."

The calif now relapsed into silence, which was uninterrupted, until, at about nightfall, they entered the city.

————

CHAPTER III.

"Why comes he not? his steeds are fleet, Nor shrink they from the summer heat.

Giaour.

Bagdad, the once favourite residence of the Abassidian califs, stands in a vast plain upon the banks of the Tigris. As described by ancient historians, it was built upon both sides of the river and in form was perfectly circular. A double wall enclosed it, the gates of each of which were disposed alternately with respect to those of the other, whence it was sometimes called Zaura, or the oblique, an arrangement which added greatly to the security of the city's defences; for an enemy that by any chance had effected an entrance within the outer wall, was obliged to traverse some distance between the two, ere arriving at the inner gate, which before the city could be entered must still be forced, and that under circumstances very unfavourable to the accomplishment of such a purpose. In addition to this, lofty turrets overlooked the town on all sides.

The banks of the Tigris were adorned by the principal public buildings, and palaces of the most important citizens, which were partially concealed by the groves of palm and cypress trees, that grew in profusion along its margin. Moored fast in the river, rippling its current with their prows, were ranged a line of boats, over which was thrown a spacious bridge, that afforded free communication between the opposite portions of the city. In every quarter were seen objects worthy of note. Large and commodious caravansaries accommodated the traveller; rich merchandise of every description was displayed to view in its extensive bazaars; noble aqueducts and magnificent baths contributed to the convenience and luxury of its inhabitants. Many an ample mosque supported its lofty dome, upon whose height glittered the symbol of the Moslem's faith; tall minarets reared themselves in singular and fantastic beauty, and towering proudly above all these, in the eastern and more ancient part of the city, stood the imperial palace.

Founded by Abu Giafar al Mansor, the grandfather of the present monarch, it had, in the short space of half a century, become a splendid and flourishing metropolis, rivalling the great city of Constantine itself.

The ruins of ancient Ctesiphon are supposed to have contributed to the structure of Bagdad; and, in truth, some ready storehouse of materials might seem necessary to account for the rapidity of its rise. But let a careful observer transport himself back to this city, before modern discovery had found a passage across the sea to either Indies, and all wonder and doubt will vanish from his mind. Its situation seemed adapted to render it one of the principal marts of commerce, between the eastern and western worlds; and its rapid growth, its condition flourishing beyond example, justified the choice of its founder.

Gold and silver from the mountainous regions of northern India; precious stones from Egypt and Hindostan; pearls (an article of great commerce) from the Persian Gulf and Indian Ocean, as well as silks, spices, and frankincense, all found their way into this favoured city, and from her bosom by means of the ports lying upon the Mediterranean, were dispersed throughout the remote west.

Adorned by the liberality of a magnificent dynasty, its wealth and splendour were unrivalled, while the vigour of its government for a long time kept aloof that degeneracy, which might sooner have been expected, from the luxury and vices of its inhabitants. It has, however, since suffered those vicissitudes, which have been in so remarkable a degree the lot of the cities of Asia. The ancient capital of the califs is now no more. Its wealth and gorgeous magnificence have passed away. It has met the inevitable doom which stands recorded in the book of fate against all earthly grandeur, and Bagdad is now a small town upon the western bank of the Tigris, under the dominion of the race of Othman.

During the reign of Haroun al Raschid, Bagdad was at the height of its splendour. An experienced soldier, a determined foe to the enemies of Islamism, ready alike to defend and extend his dominions, the power of that monarch was respected if not feared throughout the world. From the time when he led his father's warriors to the gates of Constantinople, and imposed an annual tribute upon the trembling Empress of the Greeks, till now, victory seemed chained to his sword, and in the language of Eastern hyperbole, the kingdoms of the East lay concealed in his scabbard. Nor was the vigour of the calif's character felt less at home than abroad. Under his government, industry was protected, merit rewarded, vice and oppression promptly requited, and often with a punishment fearfully disproportionate to the offence. But though his administration of justice was stern, and even cruel, yet it was equal. No tie of blood or friendship could arrest its course, and if his subjects feared the severity, they, at least, praised the impartiality of its execution. His enemies he spared not; he had himself been educated in a school of adversity; he had early taught himself to oppose the craft, and bear the cruelties of an ambitious brother, and he was not less ready to inflict, than he had been to endure, those evils which the vicissitudes of life impose upon the unfortunate.

In his private character, however, Haroun was generous, susceptible of friendship, and, above all, prone to pleasure and mirth. It was his delight to roam about his capital in some impenetrable disguise, accompanied by his favourite Giafar; to enjoy the merriment of some strange adventure, many of which are in Eastern tales recounted to us. Oftentimes he bandied jests with the careless idler, and heard his own name or actions the subject of innocent raillery, or drank of the wine cup with the licentious and jovial, while the erring Mohammedan little thought that the gay companion at his side was the chief imam of his religion. Sometimes the monarch left terrible traces of anger upon his path; yet oftener charmed by wit, or seduced by congenial merriment, he remembered the culprits only to favour or gently to reprove them.

Though war was the business of the monarch, and though pleasure charmed at times the man, religion still had claims upon the pontiff, and its duties were not neglected. In the early days of the califate, to read the prayer of the mosque, to expound the Koran, and to lead the pilgrim to Mecca, were the duties of the vicar of the Prophet, as well as to combat at the head of the true believers in the field. These offices were performed by Haroun, with a readiness equal to that with which he discharged those more congenial to his temper. When in imminent danger from the power of his brother, he once offered up a vow, that if Allah would protect his servant from the dangers which surrounded him, on foot he would traverse the road to the holy city. His prayer was heard. The hand of God took his brother from the world, and Haroun ascended the throne of his fathers. Then turning a deaf ear to those courtiers who with more prudence than piety counselled him not to leave his newly acquired kingdom, he listened to the voice of the learned doctors of religion, divested himself of the ensigns of authority, and having consigned them into the hands of his trustiest servants, proceeded, clothed with the mantle of the hadgi, to the fulfilment of his holy vow. Nor was his piety unrewarded. "Eight times," says the historian, "he performed the pilgrimage to Mecca, and as often defeated his enemies in pitched battles;" a coincidence which impressed itself with such force upon the calif's mind, that he was said to attribute his success in arms to his numerous visits to the holy city. In a prince of

Haroun's abilities, it is probable that this was rather the result of policy than superstition, since his subjects would more willingly obey and more readily follow that monarch, whom they supposed to be under the immediate guidance of Heaven. It cannot be denied, however, that he was deeply imbued with the superstition of the age, and disdained not the assistance and direction of astrology, dreams, and omens, even in the execution of his most important enterprises.

During the present absence of the calif, the care and duties of the government were left in the hands of the venerable Iahia al Barmeki, a sage who had exercised the office of vizier under his father, and had been the guide of his own youth. His four sons in no way degenerated from the character of their father. With talents of a high order, they were endowed with the virtues of liberality and clemency, and although they filled the most desirable posts in the kingdom, envy itself was silent at seeing power in hands so worthy.

Of this favourite family, Giafar, the second son, was most dear to the calif. He had appointed him vizier, when his father's age prevented him from attending to the duties of that office, and upon his fidelity he reposed for the greater part of his reign. The young prince was well worthy the favour of his master. He possessed in a remarkable degree the qualifications necessary for that important post. Patient of labour, resolute in action, a remarkable coolness as well as decision characterized his counsels and his deeds. Daily intercourse with the Commander of the Faithful had imparted a shade of sternness to his character while a long experience of the duties of prime minister, and the knowledge that he was accountable to a superior for his every action, had taught him prudence, and had taken from him, in a great degree, that impetuosity which, if it be the dower, is also often the bane of youth.

All that was rude in the composition of the young prince had been softened by education. He was versed in astrology, the study of the Koran, and all the learning of the East. The history and customs of the western world were not unknown to him, while in wit and song he rivalled the most celebrated poets of the age. It was not then a matter of wonder, that so valuable a servant, and so accomplished a friend, should occupy a high place in the calif's affection. Indeed such was his master's attachment to his vizier, that he rarely suffered himself to be deprived of his society, and on his present visit to Mecca with his favourite wife Zobeide, and his daughter Abassa, he had commanded the attendance of Giafar, having left the care of his kingdom in the hands of his venerable father.

After the calif's departure, nothing occurred to disturb the quiet and monotony of the city, until the arrival of an embassy from Constantinople. The private train of the ambassadors was superb and imposing, and a thousand chosen warriors accompanied them; an escort necessary, they alleged, to protect their persons during a long and perilous journey.

The purpose of their mission was kept profoundly secret, for they refused to disclose it, except to the Commander of the Faithful in person. Rumours of hostility and defiance were abroad, and as the bearing of the new comers seemed to corroborate such suspicions, the prudent Iahia refused, during the absence of his master, to grant them admission into the city. Having consulted the sages of the court, he caused an ample and commodious encampment to be prepared for their reception, a few miles below the city. Provisions, choice and in abundance, were here furnished by the officers of the royal household, and all communication was interdicted between the strangers and the inhabitants of Bagdad.

Five times a day does every pious Mussulman turn his face towards Mecca; but oftener than this the good Iahia ascends the terrace of his palace, and looks anxiously towards the holy city. He is not forgetful of the sacred ceremonies of religion, yet his prayers are of no worth. Though he carefully avoids the approach of any unclean thing, and purifies his person with the most scrupulous exactitude, yet he is unmindful of that, the neglect of which, according to the dictates of the Prophet, must invalidate his worship, more than any outward omission. His thoughts wander from heaven, and, while the name of the Supreme is upon his lips, the image of his sovereign fills his soul. Of the same fault are guilty many citizens in their devotions. Even the muezzin, as from the high minaret he summons the faithful to prayer, forgets his Keblah;[4] and, as he scans the southern horizon, thinks only of the return of his calif.

Under these circumstances, it was to be expected, that the first approach of the pilgrims should be discovered by the watchful citizens. Accordingly, on the day when our tale commences, word was brought to Iahia, that a body of men was seen approaching from the southward. The messenger found the old man already aware of their coming, and watching their progress over the plain.

"Look, Fadhel," said Iahia to his eldest son, who was standing at his side, "look with care, thine eyes are young, and must even now discern them."

"There can be no doubt, my father, it is the calif. Those red turbans—do you not see them?

"I see them not."

"The shining caparison of their steeds, the order and regularity of their march, these at least you can observe."

"I do, Allah be praised!" exclaimed the old man. "Mount thy horse, my son, and greet the calif, ere he encounter those Christian dogs:

some evil may chance of their meeting." Fadhel obeyed, and in a few moments was spurring from the gates of the city.

The news spread rapidly throughout Bagdad. The walls and housetops were quickly crowded with citizens, desirous to catch the first glimpse of their approaching monarch. Long do they wait, for the march of that band is stately and slow, but their patience is at last rewarded. The sun has not left the horizon, ere they can discern the person of the calif. Loud are the acclamations of the people, as the Commander of the Faithful enters the city; fervent prayers are uttered for the prosperity and continuance of his reign; thanks are offered up in the mosque, by Haroun, for his safe return; warm greetings pass between returning and long-left friends; and the busy delighted assemblage soon separate to the quiet of their homes.

Night has come, and with it repose, to many weary, many troubled souls. Even the calif has divested himself of his cares, and forgets them in slumber. Giafar alone could not find rest. He had been busily employed in preparing for the reception of the Roman embassy, which was to take place on the following day. Every officer of the household had his charge. The soldiery were in readiness, and his experience and attention had omitted nothing which might contribute to the splendour of to-morrow's pageant. This occupation had the effect of diverting, for a time, his attention from himself; and it was not until he retired to his palace that he had leisure to turn his thoughts inward.

The features of the princess Abassa were deeply imprinted in his soul. Accident had disclosed their beauty to his view; but no chance, no lapse of time, and no effort of resolution, could thenceforward erase their remembrance. He thought of her high rank, her sacred lineage, of the pride of her father, and his heart drooped within him. His future life seemed a desert, parched and arid. Yet when he recurred to the calif's friendship, and called to mind words which had fallen from his lips, then, as though rain from heaven had descended upon this waste, all was green, and hopes and joys freshened upon its surface. Long did he muse upon his hopes, his fears; upon the worth and beauty of his mistress, until nature, wearied at last, sought refuge in repose.

"God is merciful!" said the young prince with a sigh, and he consigned himself to sleep.

————

CHAPTER IV.

Allah, most high! Allah, most high! there is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is the prophet of God. Come to prayer—come to prayer—come to the temple of salvation. There is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is the prophet of God. Come to prayer—prayer is better than sleep—come to the temple of salvation.—The Ezzan.

The silver voices of the muezzins have chanted forth the ezzan, and every good Mussulman has obeyed the summons. The sun has just risen upon the city. All Bagdad is at prayer. The calif himself, in the sacred character of chief imam, conducts the holy rites, and devotion swells in the bosoms of his subjects, as they listen to the voice of their pilgrim monarch. The duties of religion are soon performed, and the mosques are deserted. Crowds of citizens, as curiosity prompts, bend their way to various portions of the city. Many throng upon the southern wall to view the approach of those foreign knights, who are seen advancing in solemn array. Others are attracted to the river's banks, where many a gilded barge is stealing from the shore, with its crimson awnings flaunting in the air; and noble galleys, with their decorated crews, are seen parting the waters.

The Tigris is pavilioned with silk and gold—the thirsty sunbeams can scarcely drink of its waters.

The current of the populace, however, set towards the imperial palace. In the courtyard was ranged a portion of the battle guard of the calif, a chosen body of warriors, which, to the number of one hundred and sixty thousand men,[5] were arrayed throughout the city. They were clad in coats of mail, covered with fine white linen, and their turbans were of the same colour and material. Across their shoulders were hung broad battle axes of steel; each in his right hand grasped a ponderous mace at arms, while in his left he bore a golden purse, in which was contained his yearly stipend. The sinews of war were all there—equipment, discipline, and pay—everything that could delight the eye of a warrior, and impress the spectator with a sense of the power and magnificence of their chief.

Opposite to these, and finely contrasting with them, were drawn up ten thousand red-turbaned horsemen, such as have been before described.

Three gates of the left wing of the royal palace are presently thrown open, and from each issue a thousand white eunuchs, while, from the opposite quarter of the building, throng forth the same number black as night. Their weapons are naked scimitars born in their right hands, and sheathless poniards which glitter at their girdles. They enter the hall of audience to place themselves around the calif's throne—fit emblems of Eastern despotism. Seven hundred porters swept the dust from the steps of marble, and waited at the numerous doors which gave ingress to the various recesses of the palace.

Around the vestibule and entrance to the audience chamber were piled stands of arms of every description. There were the Tartar cap and lance, the djerrid, or dart of the Arab, the bow of the hardy Scythian, with quivers of arrows; and conspicuous among all were the long spear of the Greek, the cuirass and shield, trophies of many wars. The audience chamber itself was hung with rich tapestry, and covered with a thousand carpets, and costly furniture was scattered around in oriental profusion.

Here and there, from the huge throat of many a sculptured lion, issued fountains of water into marble basins, while mingled with them reclined the living monarch of the forest, hardly to be distinguished from his chiselled representative, save by his rolling eye, and the sluggish motion of his nervous tail. At times, indeed, they stretched their wide jaws, and displayed to view the white and pointed tushes with which they were furnished, yawning hideously, yet not in anger; evincing rather, as it might seem, their listlessness at being the spectators of so tame, so idle a pageant. Upon fourscore Persian carpets crouched as many richly spotted tigers, leashed in silk, each with his keeper startling the astonished spectator by their terrific yet exquisite beauty.

Trees of rare workmanship bent beneath the weight of their golden fruit, enclosed in which, as in little censors, were burning cinnamon, ambergris, and aloe wood, which diffused through the air their sweet perfume.

High amid this scene of splendour was reared a throne of ebony, upon which sat Haroun al Raschid, clothed in a robe and vest of the deepest black. It was the favourite hue of the Abassides. A rich turban of the same gloomy colour surmounted his brow, from which nodded three glossy heron plumes, secured by a circlet of invaluable jewels. Upon his shoulders hung the Burdé, or sacred mantle of Mohammed, and his right hand grasped the staff which once supported the steps of the apostle of God. Upon each side the throne waved the sable standards of his race, the "Night" and the "Shadow," and seemed to shed obscurity from their folds over the gorgeous spectacle around.

The calif's three sons sat upon the topmost step of the throne, while around it stood the lords of state and officers of the royal household. Conspicuous among these were the venerable Iahia and his sons; Mesrour and Ibrahim, chiefs of the black and white eunuchs; Gabriel, the royal physician, a man of rare endowments; and many others, whose grave and noble presence gave dignity to the assemblage. Around the hall was ranged close latticework, through which houris, or gentle beings as celestial as they, were gazing, their bosoms heaving with an eager curiosity, which, it is true, seemed somewhat allied to earth.

All was still and motionless throughout the court, when in a few moments the ringing of steel chains, and the tramp of armed feet, announced the approach of the Grecian knights. At the instruction of an officer appointed for that purpose, they stooped their foreheads to the threshold, in which was enchased a portion of that black stone[6] which for ages has been an object of the pilgrim's reverence at Mecca. Yet it was with reluctance that they submitted to this unworthy ceremony. A few, less complying, or more adroit than the rest, spurned or avoided the degradation, and many, as they bent, spat in abhorrence upon the threshold, and muttered secret curses against the impostor of Mecca. As the strangers entered the hall, they seemed at first dazzled by the strange magnificence that burst upon their sight: the Eastern pomp and apparel, the fierce beasts that seemed ready to make their spring, and the forms of men still fiercer, that darkened around the apartment. Yet it was for a moment only that they permitted their attention to be diverted by these objects. Calling to mind their sacred character, and the high errand upon which they came, they shook off the feeling of awe which for a moment chilled their bosoms, and advanced with dignity to the foot of the throne. They were, in truth, a gallant band. Their plated armour fitted closely to their persons, and the plumes in their helmets drooped gracefully upon their steeled shoulders. No jewels nor rich robes adorned their dress, but the iron garb which they wore shone like the diamond, and sat as easily upon their frames as though woven in the looms of India. The calif gazed upon them for a moment in silence, then waving his hand, signified that he was in readiness to receive their message.

The chief ambassador, a man with white hair, and of dignified appearance, bowing lowly, proffered then a sealed epistle, which the vizier took from his hands and presented to his master.

"Read it thyself, Giafar," said the calif; "read it aloud, so that all present may hear."

The prince undid the seal, glanced his eye hastily over the writing, and replied,

" 'Tis for thine ear alone, most noble sovereign."

"Read on," was the stern reply; and the vizier read as follows:—[7]

"Nicephorus, emperor of the Romans, to Haroun, king of the Arabians, sends greeting. Let not the peace of two mighty nations be disturbed by thine ambition. The late empress, whom God has taken to himself, considered thee a rook and herself a pawn. That weak woman submitted, indeed, to pay thee a price for thy friendship; but know that a king has come upon the throne, who will not render a tribute unworthy the majesty of the empire. Be content to live in amity with thine equals, restore the fruits of thine avarice and insatiable rapacity, or receive from the hands of my ambassadors the only tribute a soldier can pay thee."

"Ha! the hound!" exclaimed the calif. And then, "What is the tribute that he sends?" came sharply from between his set teeth.

At this demand, one of the knights strode boldly forward, and having disengaged a bundle of swords from the folds of silk in which it was enwrapped, cast it down at the foot of the throne.

The flash of the midnight lightning is not more sudden and startling than was the change produced upon the haughty calif by this bold procedure. The blood deserted his face, leaving it pale as ashes, and his frame trembled with anger, which he was evidently, yet unsuccessfully, striving to master. He strained his scimitar tightly in his grasp, while his eyes glared rapidly from one object to another, like those of some wild beast that is about to spring upon his prey, but is as yet uncertain as to the individual object of attack.

When his emotion permitted him to speak, he exclaimed in tones in which passion predominated,

"Now, by my father's beard! but this is overbold. Have you thought upon the value of your lives, that you have come upon so insolent an errand?"

"We have, my lord," replied the aged ambassador.

"Answer me not," interrupted the calif. "Yet speak. I will listen. What warrant have you for their safety?"

"The honour of a king," was the firm reply. "And it will suffer a foul blot, great prince, should but a single hair of our heads be injured at thy bidding."

"You have counted too far upon my forbearance," exclaimed the monarch, angrily. "Here, in mine own court," he muttered to himself, "thus to be bearded! Blood, blood alone can wash out this insult."

"It must flow freely, and from thine own subjects, ere we are butchered even here," exclaimed a veteran knight, looking around at the naked scimitars which were bristling throughout the hall. "Yet if there be bravery or courtesy among Persian nobles, let them grant us a clear field and we will bide the encounter. For myself," he added, tauntingly, "I will be content to leave my body in the sands, if my good sword cannot redeem it from the bravest two that will dare to face me."

An expression of satisfaction predominated over anger in the calif's countenance, as he saw his nobles press forward to accept the bold challenge of the Greek, and still more when he perceived his favourite son Amin among the number.

"It is well, friends," he exclaimed; "yet fall back. My brave son, many thanks; but it may not be. Thou shalt hunt the foxes in their den; but here it may not be. Fall back, Amin; fall back, every one!"

All obeyed this reiterated command except Giafar, who still kept his place near his master's side. He had watched with anxiety the effect produced upon the haughty soul of the calif by the reading of the Roman emperor's insulting message, and he trembled for the result. Determined even at the risk of losing his master's favour, to deter him from any outrage upon the sacred persons of the ambassadors, he had advanced, and was about to prostrate himself at his feet, when the occurrence just related interrupted the course of Haroun's anger, and enabled him to control his indignation.

The challenge of the Greek was not heard by the vizier, or if heard was not heeded. His eyes were fixed upon his master, watching in his features those changes that varying passion produced upon his angry countenance. He saw that his brow was yet unbent, that his hand still grasped his scimitar, that he was about to descend from his throne, and he hesitated to leave him.

"Stay not by my side," said the calif. "Thou needst not fear me, Giafar."

"Strike at the life of thy slave, my lord," exclaimed the prince; "there will be many left who can serve thee as well. But strike not a blow at thine own honour; when once wounded, that thou canst not heal."

"Nay, fear me not, I say. Thou mistakest my purpose. I would but try the temper of these swords—this tribute that the emperor hath sent me. I would see," and here he smiled scornfully, "if they are toys for children, or blades fit for a soldier's use."

So sayings the calif descended to the lowest step of the throne, and placing his foot upon the glittering blades, drew from its sheath his good Samsamah. Raised to the full stretch of his arm, above the monarch's head, the weapon glittered for a moment in air, and then descended like lightning upon the steel bundle, severing it completely in two, and shivering the swords of which it was composed into a thousand fragments.

A murmur of admiration ran through the court at a feat of such dexterity and strength, and the strangers wondered to see their best blades shattered like glass by the well-tempered sword of the monarch. The calif's first movement was to examine the edge of his scimitar, to see if it had suffered from the rude concussion. The result of this scrutiny seemed satisfactory, for he smiled grimly, and reached the weapon to Giafar, who, having scanned it carefully, returned it to his master with a responding look of gratification. Indeed we learn from the annalist of the times, that "There was not the slightest bruise or indenture upon its surface; proving," he adds, "both the goodness of the blade, and the strength of the arm that wielded it."

The calif having now reascended the throne, turned to address the ambassadors.

"The courtesy of your emperor shall not be forgotten. I will well requite it," and he smiled bitterly as he spoke. "For every sword he hath sent me I will bring to him a thousand, and strong hands shall bear them—faithful hands—hands that would turn them even against their own bosoms at my slightest wish. Slaves!" exclaimed the monarch, his face glowing with pride and enthusiasm, as he turned to the swarthy forms that were ranged like bronze statues around the audience chamber—"slaves, have I not said aright? Who of you has a life at his master's service?"

Obedient to this call numbers rushed forward, and bent their necks to the ground in token of their devotion to the calif's will. Haroun looked upon them for a moment as they stooped before his throne, and then beckoned an officer, who approached with his scimitar unsheathed.[8] At a sign from the Commander of the Faithful, the executioner struck off the head of the foremost, and the marble steps were deluged with blood. He looked again upon the calif, and again the blade descended upon its victim. Another look, and a third suffered the fate of the two former, yet still the ready wretches gathered to the scimitar's edge, and even when commanded to retire, seemed to linger for their death, as for some dispensation from a propitious deity.

Stifled sobs, half-suppressed screams, and exclamations of terror, came from the surrounding lattice, testifying the emotion of the fair beings there concealed at this scene, one shriek sounding loudly above the rest. At this the monarch frowning, turned his head hastily towards that part of the chamber whence these sounds proceeded. All was in an instant hushed. Silence, gloomy and fearful, brooded over the assembly. Haroun watched with gratified pride the emotion produced upon the Roman knights at a spectacle so revolting; a spectacle at which even the calif's veteran court were moved. As for the strangers, they were stupified with horror; they stirred not, they seemed hardly to breathe.

They were soon aroused, however, by the voice of Haroun, who, turning to them with a stern aspect, said,

"And now, ye misbelieving dogs, depart upon the instant. Let not your horses' hoofs tarry upon these plains. If to-morrow's sun finds you upon this side the Euphrates, your carcasses shall fatten the sands of the desert. Yet stay," he added, as his eye glanced at Nicephorus's letter, which Giafar still held, "your master's message shall not go unanswered."

He then dictated the following epistle of "tremendous brevity" (as it is styled by a distinguished historian), which was written upon the outside of the missive of the Roman emperor.

"In the name of the most merciful God, Haroun al Raschid, Commander of the Faithful, to Nicephorus, Roman dog. I have read thy letter, oh! thou son of a misbelieving mother! Thou shalt not hear—thou shalt behold my reply."

This was sealed with the calif's signet ring, and delivered into the hands of the ambassadors.

"Now away, and quickly," said the monarch, "Yet before you depart, look around upon the warriors that stand in my presence. Mark, ere you leave this city, the many troops that are arrayed within its walls. Note well my power, and the devotion of my subjects. Then go, and bid your emperor tremble; bid him keep within the gates of Constantinople when his lord approaches. Let him not dare to face me in the field, unless he can oppose me with warriors who can die like mine, and weapons of a far different temper from these toys."

As he spoke, he pointed to the glittering fragments which were strewed beneath his feet, and glanced slightly at the headless bodies of his slaves that lay near.

There were gazing on him at that moment some gentle beings who loved him well, and who looked to see some sign of pity and regret pass across his features; but no—his mien was haughty, his countenance stern and enkindled, and in imagination he seemed leading his troops to the rich conquest of the Grecian capital.

The Roman embassy retired slowly, and with some appearance of dignity, but their bosoms were awed by the calif's power, and sickened by the display of his revolting despotism. They feared lest a monarch so powerful, and so well served, should make good the fierce threats which were yet ringing in their ears. They feared lest the desolation of war should follow close upon their track, and enter quickly into their own land. They looked to see the fierce calif answer with fire and sword the stern message of their sovereign—a message worthy the ancient dignity of the empire if supported with bravery and effect, yet one which must bring upon their heads the full fury of a warlike and powerful monarch.

After the departure of the foreign knights, the hall was cleared of all but the lords of state, who, assembled in full divan, held council together. This, however, was but a mere form. Haroun was bent on war; and his subjects were eager as himself to wash out in the blood of their enemies the stain upon their sovereign's honour. No time was needed for preparation. All things were in readiness for the field, and the calif was resolved to lead his troops against the enemy without delay. After a short deliberation, it was decided that the army should set forth upon its march against the infidels upon the following day.

"Giafar," said the calif to his vizier, as they left the council chamber together, "I would see thee to-night at the palace, after the hour of evening prayer. I have somewhat to say to thee that concerns thee nearly. And—dost thou hear me, Giafar?—I have a gift to bestow upon thee that thou little dreamst of; one, to which all former favours are as nothing. Inquire no more of me at present; to-night thou shalt know all. Farewell. See that thou dost not fail me."

"I will not fail thee, my lord," replied the wondering prince, and they parted.

————

CHAPTER V.

And he, the enchanter of the scene, Who gave thee hope—then brought thee blight, Who said, "Behold yon world of light!" Then sudden dropp'd a veil between.

Lalla Rookh.

Indefatigable as the calif was in the duties which belonged to his high station, he was, as has been said, extremely sensible to the pleasures of social life. Though ready in the field, and constant in the divan, yet when the toils of state were over, he delighted to surrender himself to those enjoyments which abounded within the walls of his palace. There, every pleasure greeted him; sweet lutes and sweeter voices sounded in harmony. There, exquisite forms hurried through the mazes of the dance, revealing, in fascinating pantomime, their rival, yet unrivalled proportions. Rare perfumes, rich viands, and delicious sherbets, regaled and restored the senses, while Shiraz and Kismische poured their forbidden but enlivening currents.

At these hours the calif often sighed for the presence of his beloved Giafar. While he was absent, there rested a blank, a dark spot upon the face of all his pleasures. Every enjoyment seemed imperfect without the participation of his friend. But the custom of the country forbade; the inviolable usages of the harem permitted not his entrance within its sacred precincts. There was one method, however, by which this barrier to the calif's wishes might be removed. As his son-in-law, as the husband of his daughter Abassa, the doors of the harem would be thrown open to the prince, nor could the most punctilious observer of Eastern etiquette object to his admission within its walls. Often and carefully had the Commander of the Faithful pondered upon this subject, and no measure in the government of his vast kingdom occupied his attention oftener, or perplexed him more, than the accomplishment of this purpose, which seemed so necessary to his private happiness.

On the evening of the day when he received and dismissed the Roman ambassadors with such haughtiness, as he sat in his palace awaiting the coming of Giafar, the subject pressed upon his mind with more than usual force. He had undertaken a war with a powerful nation, and was about to bend to it with that energy which characterized all his military operations. He was confident in the valour of his troops, in his own qualifications as a leader, and in the favouring power of Allah; yet he failed not to perceive that the campaign must be long and dangerous, and might be unfavourable in its issue. He himself might not return.

He had resolved to humble the pride of the Roman emperor, and for this he would peril his life, to that extremity, which his duty as a sovereign and a commander would permit; for death, to his haughty spirit, was preferable to defeat.

Thus situated, a motive besides the one already mentioned, prompted him to give his daughter in marriage to the prince. He wished to leave his sons, who were yet young, under the protection of one, united to him and to his family by the closest ties—one, who if the chance of war should deprive the kingdom of its sovereign, would be superior to the temptations of ambition, and would watch carefully over the interests of the sons of him who had been his own munificent patron and father. But the calif's foible was jealousy of power. He feared lest this step might lay the foundation of civil discord, which, though it might not interrupt the tranquillity of his own reign, might disturb the succession of his sons, and transfer the sceptre into the hands of the Barmecides. This was the thought that made him hesitate, that checked his half-formed purpose, even when upon the verge of resolution.

In the mean time, Giafar, in strange agitation, was bending his way towards the imperial palace. Hopes and fears came crowding in upon his soul. He felt that he was approaching an important and critical period of his existence, by the result of which his future happiness was to be deeply affected. Had his rank or fortune been less than they were, he might have supposed that the intimation which had fallen from the calif's lips when he last parted from him, referred to his advancement in one or both of these particulars. But he was the first subject in the empire, and unless his master resigned his crown into his hands, there was no mark of esteem which he could now confer upon him; save only one, compared with which honours and wealth were of no account. When the thoughts of the young prince dwelt for a moment upon this, the only boon, as it seemed to his agitated mind, which the calif could now bestow upon him, a vision of happiness stole with a soothing influence upon his soul. He was far away, in some secluded spot, gazing into the eyes of his mistress, seeing there his wealth and treasure, encompassing in the circlet of his arms his domain, his world, while rank and riches, as things of no worth, were fleeting away in the distance.

A stifling oppression, which almost impeded respiration, aroused him from his revery. He collected himself, and proceeded more firmly on, for his step had become slow and irregular. A few moments brought him to the palace gates, yet ere they had elapsed, the vizier was again lost in tumultuous and conflicting emotions. He composed himself as he ascended the steps, and when he entered the presence of Haroun, no trace of the feelings which disturbed his bosom could be read in his practised countenance.

Giafar found the calif occupied with the plans of his extended expedition, and became in a few moments as deeply interested as his master, while they spoke together of the state and number of his troops, of the routes proposed, and of the general plan of the campaign.

"Like you it not?" said the monarch, warmly, as he sketched in a hurried manner a course by which he proposed to lead his army even to the shores of the Propontis—"like you it not, Giafar? We will knock at his very doors. Allah be praised, who has given his servant means to accomplish such a work."

" 'Tis a bold project, sire," replied the prince, surprised at the extent of the calif's designs. "Many a league of hostile country, many a fortress and walled town must be passed, ere you can reach that sea."

"Has time dulled the scimitars of my warriors, or age weakened mine own arm? I have bathed my horses' limbs in those waters ere now," continued Haroun, his dark eye flashing as he spoke; "and when I threatened Constantinople, what saved that proud city? Submission and tribute."

"I was but a child, then, my lord," said the vizier, "yet I have heard my father oft speak of that war. But Nicephorus is a soldier—"

"The more worthy of my arms. He will not shun me, then, in battle. Be assured I shall seek him there, and should the dog trust himself within reach of my arm, with this sword will I convert him to our blessed faith. Prostrate upon the ground he shall abjure his accursed creed, even at the feet of the vicar of our most holy Prophet—the salvation and peace of God be upon him," added the calif, in a subdued tone, yet his right hand was still extended, as though present in the field he was bidding defiance to an enemy.

"God grant it, sire! May you clip the wings of the Roman eagle. Yet what part is mine in this war?"

"You go not with us, Giafar," replied the calif. "Let the care of my subjects be thine. Keep order in the city; administer justice in the divan. Thine own wisdom shall guide thy councils, and in the execution of thy plans thou hast the sanction and authority of my own name, and art clothed as with mine own power. Thy father will aid thee in the discharge of thy duties."

"My services are thine to command, sire," answered the prince.

"Strange! I thought to be hard beset with entreaties and prayers that thou mightst bear a part with us in this gallant enterprise. What sayst thou?" added Haroun, surprised at the prince's silence—"not a word? I have known thee plead as for life, to accompany me upon some excursion to the frontiers, and now, when we strike at such game, wouldst thou lag behind?"

"I have never tarried, sire, when thou hast pointed out my path; but thou hast spoken; and at the voice of the king the slave should humble himself and be silent."

"I looked not to find thee thus complying," said the calif, with a smile. "Thou wilt watch, too, over all sedition and heresy which may arise among my people, whether near or afar off. Nay, it is near thee now; nearer than thou thinkest. Iahia Ben Abdallah is, if I err not, plotting treason against my throne. I have watched him long; often when he has little deemed that the eye of his master was on him, have I read in the restless and hurrying changes of his face, the workings of a false and treacherous spirit. He waits but my departure with the army to break forth into open rebellion. Observe him closely. Upon the least suspicion, do thou take his life."

"I will not fail, my lord, in aught which thou hast commanded me."

"Yet hold," muttered the calif, musing to himself, " 'twere folly to be forestalled in this; he is all craft and falsehood. I will waver no longer; not an instant. Now that I have bethought me," he continued, turning abruptly to the prince, an expression of dark determination gleaming suddenly across his features—"now that I have bethought me, let it be done without delay. Ere I depart from Bagdad, bring me the traitor's head."

"If my lord will listen to the voice of his servant," said the young prince, with hesitation.

"Well, what wouldst thou say, Giafar? speak freely."

"Thou mayst remember, my lord, that Iahia Ben Abdallah came to thy court under an assurance of safety given to him in thy name by my brother Fadhel, when sent by thee with an army against him. That assurance thou hast since confirmed; and it will suit ill with thine honour, my lord, thus to deal with him, without strong proof of his faithlessness. Men will say that the promises of princes are but as stubble, which the wind scattereth and the fire consumeth, when they should prove as a band of well-tempered steel, bright and unyielding."

"And what will they say of my wisdom and prudence, Giafar, if I crush not the scorpion till it hath stung me? if, with the power to stifle rebellion in the cradle, I should wait until it leap forth in its strength to peril my kingdom and my life? No; he has forfeited his safety by his ill desert and treachery: let him die."

"He is daily at court, my lord, and beareth him like a faithful subject."

"Ay; and did not fears for a brother's honour blind thee, thou wouldst see good cause for suspicion even in this. When Iahia first came to Bagdad, he led a life private and retired. He made then no professions of fidelity, for then he meditated no treason. But now he seeks to cloak his dark designs with adulation and a show of loyalty. I trust him not. Thou needst not plead for him. I have spoken. Let him die."

Giafar saw that reply would be of no avail, and he bowed his head in silence.

"Are all things ready for our departure upon the morrow?"

"They are, my lord, or nearly so. A few hours will accomplish all that is yet wanting."

" 'Tis well done," said the calif. "But there yet remains a subject of which I would speak to thee. Months must elapse ere I can return from this war; indeed, it may be that I shall never revisit Bagdad."

"Fear it not, my most noble master," said the prince. "Allah will watch over thy safety."

"I do not fear it, Giafar," was the quick reply. "Were it written in the book of Heaven's decrees that I should fall in this contest, and were the page set before me by the angel who has it in his keeping, still I would not keep back. Yet if such should prove the will of Heaven," continued Haroun, impressively, "upon thy faith do I depend even after death. My testament—'tis in the hands of my wife Zobeide—see that every tittle of it be executed. Let not my sons be defrauded of their rights; they are yet young; watch over their inexperience and guard their interests. Thou wilt do it; I need not question it. Be to them what I have been to thee; I will ask no more."

The vizier replied not in words, but his heart was fully and his expressive features spoke eloquently of the fidelity that was swelling in his bosom.

Haroun waited for no other answer, but exclaimed, "I thank the Almighty that he has given me such a servant! Without thee, my kingdom were but a burden upon my shoulders, yes, and life also. But thou hast well assisted me to support them; and wilt continue yet to do so, may it please the most merciful Allah!"

"With my life, sire, and long may it be spared for thy service," replied the prince, with much emotion.

"How, Giafar, can I reward thy worth? speak, is there yet nothing which thou wouldst ask at my hand?"

"My services are overpaid already, my most generous lord," answered the vizier. "Owe I not everything I am to thee?"

"True, true," said the monarch, "I have not spared wealth and honours to heap them on thee, so far as they have been mine to bestow—yet I would bind thee closer to me still. My daughter Abassa is worthy the hand of a king—nay, there breathes no monarch, however powerful, upon whom I would willingly bestow her. She is the dearest treasure I possess—her virtues and her beauties are unequalled, and the riches of India could not purchase her from me. Yet to thee will I freely resign her. Thy worth and thy fidelity—dost thou hear me, Giafar?" The prince had stooped low, and pressed his forehead to the ground before the calif's feet. "I give her to thee in marriage."

It would be difficult for any pen, however eloquent, to describe faithfully the emotions of the prince at hearing these words. The rapture of a lover when hopes long nourished are gratified to the full—the tide of bliss that rolls in upon the soul, filling, even to bursting, that bosom whose current despair has long stagnated, or conflicting hopes and fears have urged into a restless storm—such feelings many may know, but few can faithfully portray.

"Thy daughter—the Princess Abassa—mine! Let me hear it from thy lips again, sire. My senses are confused—I may not have heard aright."

"Rightly thou hast heard," said the calif, "but in part only. I give her to thee as a public mark of my esteem; not to gratify thy love. I give her to thee that the strict usages of the harem may not separate us as they often do, when I most desire thy presence. Yet I would have no offspring of thine dispute the succession with my sons, when my head and thine shall lie low at the foot of some cypress. What moves thee so? the colour is gone from thy face, and thou tremblest like a frighted girl! Nay, I will not deprive thee of those rights which the customs of our country, and of our holy religion, permit. Those bounds alone that restrain every pious Mussulman shall be thine. Beauty may yet spread her charms for thee, the fairest slaves may grace thy harem, but my daughter—thou understandest me?"

The kind indulgence implied in the calif's words had not the effect of calming the prince's agitation, whatever may have been its nature. The red blood crimsoned his brow for an instant, and then retreated, giving place to deathlike paleness. "My lord," was his tremulous reply, "thy servant is quick to comprehend thy wishes," and then, after some hesitation, he added, "and not less ready to obey them."

Giafar had raised himself from the earth, and endeavoured to compose his countenance, but though he ordinarily commanded his features with singular power, the present conjuncture seemed too trying for his firmness. Conscious of this, he covered his face with his hands; but a shivering, like that of a chill ague, shook his frame, and betrayed to his observing master the existence of some powerful and secret emotion. The calif readily divined its nature, and addressed him with some sternness. "Bethink thyself well of this matter, Giafar. See that thou canst follow my commands implicitly, for to err from them would change the love I now bear thee into hatred as intense. Examine carefully thy self-control, thy fortitude. The princess possesses charms which might subdue the coldest heart, will thine be able to resist them?"

"I have felt their power, sire, but my soul is thine; my very wishes are in thy keeping."

"Thou mayst have been moved by the sweetness of her voice, or delighted by her wit and gayety; but thou has not seen her smile, thou hast not looked upon her eyes or beheld the crimson of her cheek. Thou knowest not the danger of the trial to which my friendship would subject thee.

By the beard of my father! but thou shalt see her. Thou shalt not enter blindfold upon a path which may lead thee to thy ruin."

"Chance, my lord," said the prince, hesitatingly, "chance has—"

"Well!"

"I have already seen her."

"How sayst thou?—seen her!" exclaimed the calif. "Thy words border upon madness, or thou speakest of what, in thine hours of slumber, thou hast dared to dream."

Briefly, then, did Giafar relate to his jealous master the accident which caused the disclosure of the princess's features in the desert, and the emotion which rendered her for a few moments unconscious of the exposure of her charms. As he spoke of her anxiety for her father's safety, pleasure lighted up his dark eye, and he exclaimed,

"Ever mine own child! But how looked she, Giafar?"

"Beautiful as the full moon when the sky is without a cloud," replied the prince, enthusiastically. "Rightly is she named the 'Rose of Persia.' Never thought I till then that such loveliness dwelt on earth."

"But she was pale, thou sayst?"

"Fear, my lord, had placed his finger upon her cheek, and stolen thence its colour."

"The fatigues of the journey, also," said the fond father, "may have dimmed her beauty, and the desert breeze, thou knowest, freshens not the roses upon a maiden's cheek. I will not leave Bagdad to-morrow, but will remain yet a day, that thou mayst see my daughter, and decide upon a subject which lies so near my heart. Let thy brothers set forward with the army, immediately after morning prayer. On the ensuing day, accompanied by Ibrahim, and a few chosen warriors of his train, I will follow, and can with ease overtake them. As soon as the troops have left the city, come to the palace; this key will admit thee through a private staircase, into a gallery which overlooks one of the apartments of the harem. Enter, and conceal thyself behind the lattice. When thou seest the princess, be prudent, he silent—let no sound escape thy lips which may betray thee. And if from a regard to thine own safety, thou shalt refuse a boon, which may bring thee ruin instead of happiness, I charge thee, Giafar, breathe not to mortal ear that thine eyes have rested upon her. Thou shalt see her as she comes attired from the hands of her maidens; thou shalt hear her sing to her lute—thou shalt know the full worth and danger of her attractions. And when thine eyes have gazed upon her unveiled beauty—when thine ears have drunk in the rich music of her voice—when thy soul has felt the power of her bright glances—then thou shalt say, if, as the husband of my daughter, thou canst obey my wishes."

The wondering prince bowed low before his master, in token of obedience; then taking from his hand the key which was extended to him, turned from him in silence, and departed.

————

CHAPTER VI.

Who hath not proved how feebly words essay To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray? Who doth not feel, until his failing sight Faints into dimness with its own delight, His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess,

The might, the majesty of loveliness!

Bride of Abydos.

On the following morning the sun shone brightly upon the land. Not a cloud intercepted his rays, which were reflected with dazzling brightness from shining arms and armour, which flashed and glittered in long array, as Persia poured forth her chivalry from the numerous gates of the capital. The tramp of warriors and the hard treading of horses' hoofs were drowned at those intervals when bands of oriental music passed along, by the beating of tambours, the clang of cymbals, and the wild and mournful sound of the horn, which gave spirit, if need there were, to the step of the soldier, and aroused in the breast of every hearer a martial enthusiasm.

As far as the eye could reach, a river of white and red turbans was rolling across the plain. Here and there, gayly floating down its current, were seen streaming banners, high amid which was waving gloomily the dark standard of the monarch. Around this crowded the nobles of the nation, conspicuous among whom were Fadhel, Mohammed, and Moussa, the brothers of the vizier. These experienced warriors, mindful of the fatigues which awaited them, rode steadily along, curbing with careful hand the motions of their eager steeds, to whose fiery restlessness their younger or more impatient companions gave free way, expending heedlessly those energies, which would all be needed for the arid and toilsome journey before them. Upon the walls were thousands of citizens, watching their departure. Turrets and terraces were covered with mothers, wives, and maidens, gazing veiled upon the dazzling yet melancholy scene.

Giafar saw them depart without a sigh. In his bosom there was no response to the ardour and exultation which were visible everywhere around him. He took leave of his gallant brothers without regret. As he pressed them in his arms, he uttered, it is true, a few words in which he affected to envy their good fortune, but they came not from his heart. He lingered a while watching their progress over the plain, until distance slowly hid them from his sight; then turning, he proceeded towards the royal palace.

When before had he seen his companions in arms depart for the battle, and he not eager to lead or follow them; and why did he now rejoice that duty kept him from the field? Why did he delight to roam about the dull circuit of a deserted city, when he might be spurring his steed at the head of brave followers, and wandering through the mazes of the ranged battle, his bright sword lighting him on his way. Struck by the change which had taken place in his soul, he was constrained to ask himself these questions. The answer was at his heart, and the young prince blushed as he listened to its silent whisperings. War had no charms, save to win him a wreath of myrtle. Courage and brave deeds were of no account, but as they might gain him the favour or possession of his mistress.

Having arrived at the palace, he entered, and in compliance with the wishes and directions of the calif, unlocked a private door, which displayed a staircase. Ascending this, he found himself in a gallery which overlooked one of the apartments of the harem. He then placed himself behind the latticework, trembling with agitation, and awaited the entrance of the princess. He was about to look upon the loveliest creature of those favoured climes, where beauty blooms in its full, its heavenly perfection.

The Princess Abassa had been educated in strict seclusion; for her rank in nowise exempted her from those restraints which custom enjoins upon the females of Eastern countries. Accident had disclosed her beauty to the prince, with which exception, man had not looked upon her charms, save her immediate relations, and those miserable images of manhood that flit about the harems of the great, whose services the jealousy of their men or the temperament of their women has rendered universal throughout Asia. Yet the fame of her loveliness had spread far beyond the walls of her father's palace. Beauty unparalleled, and exquisite wit, were said to be her portion. The lute she touched with the skill of Isaac, and her voice when she sang to it sounded sweet as the angel Israfel's. Men were accustomed to compare the blessings and pleasures of life to her, or to some charm which she possessed, as they would to a celestial being in whose existence and attributes they, through faith, believed.

Giafar waited with something like fear, yet impatiently for her appearance. He breathed quickly, his bosom felt oppressed, and now and then a deep-drawn sigh came to his relief. He looked through the lattice into the chamber below. No living object was visible. The perfume which was diffused throughout the apartment sickened him. He turned to the window which opened upon the river, and the breeze coming across its waters fanned his cheek. Under its soothing influence he became more calm, and in a few moments breathed freely. A second time he looked through the lattice, and a little deformed black met his eye. He was placing in due order the furniture of the apartment. His light footsteps gave no sound as he glided over the rich carpet. His eyes stole into every corner of the chamber, and seemed to insinuate themselves behind each fold of hanging curtain and tapestry with which it was adorned. Every irregularity in their arrangement was perceived, and remedied with such wonderful dexterity, that Giafar could not avoid admiring his skill, although he hardly thought himself safe from his penetration. His task performed, the slave retired.

In a few moments the sound of voices and laughter was heard approaching, and a woman of noble presence entered the apartment. She was closely veiled, but, from her voice and manner, Giafar knew her to be the Empress Zobeide. After her came the Princess Abassa. That face—he had seen it once, and never could forget it. But if the glimpse which he had caught of her beauty in the desert had sufficed to subdue his soul, now he was absorbed, entranced, as he gazed upon the full lustre of her charms.

Her veil had been laid aside, and, for the travelling robe in which he had before seen her, she now wore one of white silk, light and loosely flowing. A vest of rich crimson fitted closely to her person, sufficiently revealing how round and voluptuous was the form which it affected to conceal. Her loose trousers, although tied above the ankle, fell, when she stood erect, even to her instep, permitting to be seen incased in a light sandal, a white and delicate foot, which gave promise of a form perfect in all its proportions. Nor would the mind of the fortunate spectator have descended from its high-wrought expectation, when the position of this beautiful creature permitted his eye to ascend, in some slight degree, beyond the limits just spoken of; for when she reclined against the low divan, or upon one of the many cushions which were strewn throughout the apartment, a fair and exquisitely moulded ankle was visible, even to where the silken band which confined her dress below slightly compressed its polished surface. Encircling each limb was a ring of gold.

But it was only when her face was averted that the prince could notice these interesting particulars. His eyes are fixed intently there—his soul itself is there. His very existence seems to be in the ringlets of her hair, and upon her cheek and neck; and Giafar's self is not where stands that motionless, breathless statue, that bears his image. "Just Allah!" said the vizier, inwardly, "must these beauties which thou hast formed return to thee, like an arrow that has not found its prey to the hand of the huntsman? Shall these charms which deserve love, and would so well repay it, fade, their worth unknown, their sweet influence unfelt?"

Giafar was so deeply wrapped in the contemplation of the princess's beauty, and so absorbed by the thrilling emotions to which it gave rise, that he observed not the entrance of the calif, who followed his daughter into the apartment, and until he was aroused from his revery by the sound of his master's voice, was not aware of his presence.

" 'Tis a strange fancy, father, but I have obeyed, and you see me here dressed in the fashion you admire."

The calif's face brightened with pride as he gazed upon his beautiful child, and glancing his eye carelessly around the chamber, he replied, "It is well done—thy maidens have not failed in their duty. But why is it strange, my daughter, that I should wish to see thee thus arrayed? To-morrow I leave Bagdad—it may be for a long season, and when I think of thee, it will be as I last saw thee—thus."

"But," said Abassa, "while I am adorned like a Circassian slave in the bazaars, why is my mother thus robed? why is she covered with that odious veil, as though there were eyes here that must not look upon her?"

"Let my will suffice," replied the calif, with a shade of sternness. "Be satisfied that it is my pleasure."

"Be not angry with me, my father; I have done wrong to question thy commands."

"Do not," said Zobeide, in a melodious tone, "wear that angry countenance. I have often wondered that one who is so kind and gentle as thou art, Haroun, should give way to anger, withering and terrible as I have seen thee yield to; but, at least with lambs do not clothe thyself with the tiger's skin."

"I, Zobeide! I stern and terrible!" said the calif. "When hast thou seen me thus?"

"The fearful events of yesterday have not yet passed from my remembrance," replied Zobeide.

"Fearful?" exclaimed Haroun, "yes, they were so—but not to thee, not to the true believer. Thou sawst infidels tremble, and the messengers of an audacious misbeliever awed by the exhibition of my power. But what was this to thee? thou hadst no cause for fear."

"Those slaves, faithful beings," rejoined Zobeide, "when they knelt at thy feet, I deemed it but a trial of their fidelity, and my bosom glowed as I saw them crowd to receive their death at thy command. But when the fatal—oh! I see them now," she added, covering her face with her hands, as though she would thus exclude the remembrance of the horrid spectacle.

"That scream, then, issued from thy lips? And is it so, Zobeide? the only show of weakness evinced by Moslem on that day came from thee. Art thou not ashamed of such folly? By my life! 'tis a wise custom that mews you up like hawks.: You are fit only for the—"

"Nay, my father, 'twas I that screamed," said the princess, interrupting a sentence which promised to be anything but complimentary to her sex. "I would rest content to be mewed up like my own sefy,[9] and hooded, too, like him, rather than look again upon a scene so cruel."

" 'Tis well," said Haroun, "that the honour of Islamism depends not for its support upon women; But can you regret that slaves have died in the cause for which I venture my kingdom and my honour? Is not my life, too, perilled every hour?

Do I withhold myself from danger when duty calls me to it? Do you pity them? Slaves as they were, could they hope for a death so honourable, or so happy? Martyrs—they are now in paradise, and well will it be for thee, my daughter, well for me, and thy mother, if our fate is so glorious and so fortunate. To die in the cause of our most holy religion," continued the monarch, with upbraiding wonder in his voice and countenance, "is this what you regret, and for slaves? Look there!" and as he spoke he directed their attention to one of the many verses from the Koran, that were inscribed in letters of gold upon the walls of the chamber. "Say not of those who are slain in fight, for the religion of God, that they are dead, yea, rather they are living, but ye do not understand."

"Had the sword of an enemy struck them," replied Zobeide, "it were different far. But to fall at thine own command!"

"What matters it how they fell, so that in their death they brought profit and honour to Islamism? It is the duty of the slave to die at his master's bidding. Shall not I—" continued the monarch, pointing his finger upward, while pride kindled in his countenance, as he thought that Allah alone was his master.

"I would these wars were over, father," said the princess, "and that mankind would be content that their fellow-men should differ with them in religion, and not make it the subject of fierce and lasting enmity."

" 'Tis a woman's wish, and savours somewhat of impiety," replied the calif. "What are the lives of the few when compared to the eternal welfare of the many? The prophet of God has commanded us to fight, until all nations shall have embraced our most holy religion, and I, at least, will obey. I will not lay aside this armour, while an infidel lives to cast contempt upon our sacred law, until paradise receives me."

"Thy life, then," said Zobeide, "must be a continued warfare; thine armour must be always buckled on, and thy sword ever in thy grasp."

"Be it so, then," replied the calif; "I shall rest to-morrow, if to-day I have well laboured. Repose in paradise is the reward of him who watches faithfully in this world. Why should I sheath my sword or lay aside this armour? The enemies of Heaven are mine; all, whether they blindly worship fire, or with impious ingenuity have framed a belief which takes from Allah the supremacy, and bestows it upon a fraternity of deities."

" 'Tis an idolatrous and fearful creed," said the princess. "Whence is it, my father, that nations which have excelled all others in learning give way to error so strangely impious?"

" 'Tis their overweening presumption, their pride of opinion which leads them to it," replied the calif. "Not satisfied with what Heaven has revealed to man, they would refine upon writings which have been inspired by the Allwise. They mingle the conceits of ancient philosophy with their religion; they cannot forget that their fathers the ancient Romans worshipped—what were their names, Abassa? they have escaped my memory."

"They were, Jupiter, who reigned in heaven, Neptune, in the sea, and Pluto, in hell."

"Right, right. Fools! blind are they. Reason cannot open the eyes of their understanding, but, by the blessing of Allah, this may somewhat enlighten them," said Haroun, laying his hand upon his Samsamah. Upon this theme the calif always grew warm. A good Mohammedan, for the most part a strict observer of the Koran, a firm believer in the unity of God, and the mission of his prophet, he piously detested all infidels; but especially the Christians, whom he termed idolaters; since by a misconception of their tenets, general throughout the East, they were thought to worship a plurality of gods.

Zobeide, having by some playful remark checked his growing anger, clapped her hands thrice, when presently a slave entered, bearing fruits, sherbets, and refreshments of various kinds. During the slight repast which followed, Haroun called to mind the business of the morning, which he had quite forgotten in the warmth of the preceding discussion, and turning to Zobeide said,

"I leave to-morrow, thou knowest, to overtake the army. I have given it in charge to Iahia, and his son Giafar, to see that my testament is executed, if I should not return. Art thou satisfied that it shall be so? or are there others that thou thinkest more faithful, more worthy of the trust? Thy wishes shall be mine in this matter."

"Is not the venerable Iahia the most estimable of mankind, and are not his sons worthy of their father?" replied Zobeide.

"Iahia is indeed an old and faithful servant of the throne," said the calif. "I was wrong to speak thus of him; but Giafar is young and ambitious—"

"Giafar, father!" interrupted the princess; "can you distrust him? His name, after thine, is oftenest in the mouths of the people. I have often heard thee pronounce him the best servant sovereign ever had."

"He is brave and skilful," said the calif; "a favourite with the nation; but he is the more to be feared for this, should the prospect of a crown tempt him to shake off his allegiance. Ha! daughter?"

"You wrong him, father; I am sure you do. One who is so generous, so prodigal of his own, cannot covet that which is another's. I would stake my life upon his honour."

"Thou undertakest warmly his defence, Abassa. Hast thou not a word to say for his brothers, his father, or is he alone worthy of thy praise?"

"They are all worthy," said the princess, blushing; "they are proverbial throughout Persia for their liberality and bravery. Listen what the poet says of them.

" 'I asked the dew* if it were free.

[*The symbol of liberality.]

" 'It answered, "No, I am the slave of Iahia Ben Khaled."

" ' "I will purchase you, then," I said.

" 'It replied, "That cannot be. I am the inalienable heritage of his family." ' "

She sang this to her lute, and her voice gave double sweetness to the beauty of the verses. As she looked up in the face of an admiring father, she discovered an expression of smiling exultation his eye, which he had just withdrawn from the gallery opposite. This was unintelligible to her, until a sigh which broke from the entranced vizier came an interpreter to her doubts. With a scream she flew to the arms of her mother, while sob after sob testified a trepidation which must appear affected, or be incomprehensible, to females of our more free and social countries. She buried her face in her mother's lap, and enveloped her head and neck in her robe, with a care too undivided to bestow a thought upon the rest of her person. Her mother reproved her fears, and would have persuaded her that her suspicions were unfounded, to which she only replied, smiling through her tears, "Hast thou no fear, my mother? Give then thy veil." At the same time she reached her hand, as though she would grasp it.

The terror which Zobeide exhibited at this action was not less than that evinced by her daughter.

"Art thou mad?" she exclaimed, drawing the veil more closely to her face, and resisting, with some force, the efforts of Abassa to rob her of its protection. Haroun seemed to participate in the fears of his favourite, for approaching, he said somewhat harshly to his daughter,

"Thou art a foolish child. If thou fearest to be looked upon by thy parents, keep from their presence. Go! yet stay," he added, relenting, "kiss me ere thou goest."

"Not now, my father," said Abassa, still hiding her face and weeping; "but do not forget to see me ere thou leavest, to give me thy blessing and forgive my childish folly."

Her mother departed with her, and Haroun sought the vizier in the gallery. He sought in vain; Giafar was no longer there.

————

CHAPTER VII.

I with thee will fix my fate. * * * * If death Consort with thee, death is to me as life; To lose thee were to lose myself.

Paradise Lost.

Giafar left his place of concealment agitated and confused. The charms of the princess, her gayety and loveliness, had finished to enslave him. When he had descended into the open air, he tried for a moment to put some order into the reflections which were hurrying to and fro across his mind, that from thence might be framed a resolution suitable to the emergency before him. It was in vain; he had not the power. He looked up; the walls of the harem frowned above him—a gay prison, which contained his world—around was a populous waste. He pulled his turban tightly over his brows, and with folded arms walked hurriedly towards his home.

When there, he entered, and having retired to the solitude of his own chamber, gave himself up to the distracting emotions which were rending his bosom. What an angel had he seen! what innocence and beauty! Had the idea of such perfection ever before visited his fancy? No; not in dreams even, when the mind is all unfettered, and passes the confines of this world.

"I could gaze for ever on her," he exclaimed, "as I have gazed to-day, and ask no other happiness. And this blessing is offered to me—this perpetual enchantment—to have her ever near me, to hear the music of her voice, to dwell in the sunshine of her smiles, and to be looked upon by those eyes of hers! Is there in the wide extent of Allah's universe a heaven like this? Stay! stay!"

Other emotions seemed now to agitate the young prince's bosom, for he paced the apartment with a hurried step, muttering in broken sentences the thoughts that disturbed him.

" 'Tis cruel! To point the pilgrim to a delicious shade, when his way perforce lies across the hot desert—it were as kindly done. Yet the choice is mine. I can refuse an offer so tempting and so dangerous. I need not put my lips to the perfumed cup when the full draught is not for me. Better to be wretched alone, than make her a partaker in my misery. Yet is this the sole alternative? Is there no other? Allah have mercy upon me! the blessing of our holy Prophet be with me!" exclaimed the unhappy vizier, prostrating himself upon the carpet. "I know not what to do!"

Here for some time he remained, his face buried in his hands, but revolving with all the calmness which the agitated state of his feelings would permit, the various prospects of his future life. After some moments he arose, saying, "It shall be so—I cannot live without her now. Time may remove every obstacle to my love—the calif may relent. Indeed this may be but a trial of my fidelity. Death, too," thought the idolizing prince, "which my master so often and so boldly courts, may soon release me from my allegiance;" but a thought so ungrateful he dared not frame into words, it slept in his bosom. "I will tell the calif that I am ready to submit myself to his commands—I will go instantly. Yet have I the firmness necessary for the task? Will he not read in my countenance all that I would conceal within my bosom? I fear me that he would—I will write to him. The parchment cannot disclose more than therein is written. It will not tremble at the calif's glance. Yes, I will write. The firm ink will not grow pale, as I should, in my master's presence."

He then took a roll of parchment from an adjoining cabinet, and after long and restless deliberation, wrote as follows:—

"To his master Haroun al Raschid, from Giafar the slave.

"Thy servant has gazed upon the palace of beauty, and a chain of smiles, glances, and sweet sounds has fettered fast his senses. Yet his heart is in thy hands. It is a strong fortress which love for thee will guard from every intrusion. No passion can enter there to dispute with thee its possession.

"Thy daughter's hand is a gift more valuable far than all the favours which thou hast yet bestowed upon me. But I would not that an unwilling bride should cross my threshold. If the princess of her own free choice will become the queen of my Zenana, the happiness of thy slave will consist in obedience to his master's wishes."

Having sealed this letter he gave it to a slave, with orders to place it in the hands of the Commander of the Faithful. Yet his mind is ill at ease—his reflections pain and distress him—there is no rest for the unhappy lover. He leaves his abode, followed by four slaves, and proceeds to the river. There he enters a barge, and by a sign directs them to row to his garden, a few miles down the stream.

It was noon. Not a breath of air ruffled the surface of the Tigris. Its swift current hurrying capriciously along was a picture of the vizier's own busy, fluctuating existence; and a lesson of patience, and consolation it might have been to the unhappy man, had he thought upon that gulf in whose quiet bosom those struggling and fitful waters were so soon to be at rest. But the scene was not in unison with his feelings. The magnificence which reigned on the preceding day had disappeared, and the heat of the meridian sun had driven even the fishermen to the shore. His was the only boat upon the waters. All was too quiet and too still to harmonize with the commotion within his soul. He would have held on his way in storms, when the thunder cloud had waked the river into fury, and the angry elements were wildly striving for the mastery. As it was, the agitation of his mind manifested itself in abrupt orders to increase the speed of the boat, which in a short time became so remarkable as to draw many a silent surmise from his wondering attendants; for in those arbitrary lands, life is often held by so frail a tenure, as to depend alone upon the well-pulled oar, or the swift foot of the steed.

Such suspicions, however, soon vanished, when Giafar, after having landed at his villa, slowly bent his way along the margin of the river. He waved away the sherbets which were proffered to him by the ready hands of his servants, but drank of a running fountain, having first bathed his aching forehead in its cool waters. He then wandered through the long avenues of trees that shaded the grounds; and having found the most retired spot, there surrendered himself to meditation. He forgot what was passing at the city, he remembered not the stern command of the calif respecting his enemy Iahia, his near departure too, and that the care and government of the kingdom were soon to devolve upon him. All was forgotten except his mistress.

Deep shade dwelt everywhere around—and silence also, unless were heard the rustling of leaves, the song of birds, and the murmuring of adjacent fountains. "How sacred would her presence render this spot!" exclaimed the prince, "What delight would be infused over these walks, and how hallowed would become the shadows of these trees. To walk here with her—to read to her our own delightful poets, and to hear her sing their verses. The treasures of literature shall be brought from afar—the sages of the west shall display to us the jewels of their lore—together we will love and learn. I shall envy the breeze if it plays too freely through her tresses. I shall be jealous of the stars lest such happiness should win them down to rival me. I was right not to refuse such a treasure. I shall be content with this, even if no more is to be mine." So reasons he who has not tasted of the cup, but not so when the bright wine mingles in his veins, and the current of his blood is warmed by its magic fire. The experience of Giafar must have taught him this, and though Hafiz had not yet sung the power of love, he should have known what that prince of Persia's poets has since so beautifully taught in the song which contains the following lines:—

"The path of love is a path to which there is no end, in which there is no remedy for lovers but to give up their souls."

From a revery into which he had fallen he was aroused by the sound of oars, and presently he saw the calif's barge gliding swiftly down the current of the river towards his abode. The fluttering black pennant told that the Commander of the Faithful was on board.

The prince rose, and hurried to the basin where the barge landed to receive his master. At a word from him be seated himself at his side, and they returned together to the city.

"Art thou mad, to leave the city at such a time?" said the calif, glancing at his countenance and his garments, both of which bore evident marks of the disturbed condition of his mind. "I have sought thee throughout Bagdad, but in vain."

Giafar strove to appear calm, and replied,

"I am not myself, sire. Few are there that could gaze upon what I have gazed on to-day, and yet remain unmoved. Besides, I fear lest the princess—thou hast received my letter?"

"I have, Giafar, and understand thy fears. But thou art deceived; my daughter freely consents to be thy wife. Here, this is for thee."

The calif then placed in the prince's hand a letter. It was "For Giafar al Barmeki, from the Princess Abassa." He could have pressed the lines to his lips, but refrained, and read the following verses in Arabic, written in fair and feminine characters:—

"I had resolved to keep my love concealed within my bosom, but it escapes, and declares itself in despite of my efforts.

"The light wind as it visits thy dwelling carries with it my burning sighs, and the dew of midnight mingles with my tears, when I think upon thine image in the garden.

"Triumph, if you will, in my secret and my shame, but know the tyrant love reigns in my heart and moulds me at his will."

Giafar could hardly trust his senses as he read.

"Can it be? could she have written these lines?" were the thoughts that passed doubtingly across his mind.

"Art thou satisfied?" said the Commander of the Faithful.

"I am," was the hesitating reply. "My happiness is sealed. I shall await thy return impatiently, when I may obtain an honour so undeserved and unlocked for."

"Thy nuptials shall not be long delayed," said the calif. "And the spoils, it may be of royalty, shall grace them."

"May you return in safety and with honour, my most noble master," said the prince. "May your enemies be covered with confusion; may dust be upon their faces."

"Doubt it not," said Haroun. "Fear not but I shall take good account with the misbelieving dogs. Hast thou seen Iahia Ben Abdallah?" resumed the calif, after a short pause. "Hast thou seen that traitor, and dealt with him as I commanded thee?"

"Will my lord the calif pardon his slave?" replied the prince. "He has been unmindful of the duties which he owes to his master. Thoughts of thy goodness, and of the favour thou designest for him, have alone filled his bosom to-day. Save these, all else has passed from his remembrance. He has been forgetful even of himself."

"I will not chide thee, Giafar; but thou mayst not dally in this matter, save at sore peril, as I fear, to the peace and welfare of my people. His skill and cunning, his restless ambition, his numerous and powerful friends, all call for prompt and decisive action. Delay not, then; but so soon as I have left the city, do quickly that which I have spoken. Bid the slaves pull lightly upon their oars; I would not yet land. So. I leave with thee, Giafar, mine own honour, and the happiness of my subjects. They will be well cared for; thou needst not assure me of it. My wife Zobeide and the Princess Abassa, I leave them likewise with thee. The relation in which thou now standest to them both, makes it of right thine office to protect and guard them. If sad, dissipate their sorrow by well-timed amusement, dancing and music, the hawk and hound. Minister to their slightest wishes, if within the limits of my power and honour they can be gratified. Thou mayst even see them at times, and enliven their sorrow with thy presence. I will not set thee bounds in this, but will confide in thy judgment, thy discretion. If I should not return from this war (I sin thus to doubt the goodness of Allah, yet I will speak it), if I should return no more, be a son, a husband to them. My sons, too—but of that I have spoken in my testament—thou wilt faithfully execute my wishes?"

"Fear it not, my most noble master," exclaimed Giafar, pressing his lips to the calif's hand, "my life is ever at thy service."

"I do not fear it, Giafar. Thou seest this jewel," here the calif drew a ruby ring of great value from his finger, "it was a legacy from my father Mahadi (upon whom be peace!), a pledge of my succession to the throne. Since it was given me it has never been in the possession of another. When a grasping and malicious brother, not content with the crown which as eldest born he had inherited, envied me the possession of this ring and sent to demand it of me, I refused to resign the treasure. I chose rather to commit it to the deep waters over which we are now gliding, and to the care of the genii who make their home in its caves. Well did they fulfil the trust. At the appointed time—but thou hast heard of its strange recovery from the bed of this river; thou wert then, I remember, far away in Khourdistan, yet the tale sure has oft been told thee. Since that time it has never parted from my finger. In battle it has been there, shining amid steel blades, and even when clothed with the sacred veil, when all worldly ornaments are put off from the body, as all vain thoughts should be banished from the mind, even at an hour so holy it never left my hand—'twas sacred!"

As he spoke, the calif carried the ring to his forehead, and strong emotion was visible in his countenance. Having overcome this, he gazed for a moment upon the jewel, and then pressing it to his bosom, continued, "I am not superstitious, as I think. I believe not in the tales of magic and enchantment that daily greet my ears, and confiding as I do in the goodness of Allah towards his servants, I err in yielding thus to the gloomy forebodings which disturb my bosom as I resign this treasure into thy hands. Thou wonderest; but thou heardest not the words which were addressed to me by the strange being who, from the caverns of the deep, rescued my long-lost treasure. They are yet ringing in mine ears. But take it—it is thine. It will give thee entrance into the inmost recesses of the palace. I could part with it, Giafar, to none but thee, and not to thee, but that I believe thy very wishes and passions are mine; mine to control and direct—mine by the strong tenure of true allegiance and firm unalterable friendship."

Giafar received the ring from Haroun in silence. His thoughts were too big for utterance, but as he pressed the hand of his master to his lips, he inwardly swore never to wrong his confidence, or to suffer temptation the most seducing to lead him from the strict path which friendship and honour called upon him to pursue. The calif rightly interpreted these mute asseverations, and placing his finger upon his lips, as an injunction of silence, remained buried in thought. Silently they gain the shore, silently they ascend from the river's edge, and silently seek together the royal palace.

————

CHAPTER VIII.

The man was noble. But with his last attempt he wip'd it out.

Coriolanus.

On the following morning the calif set forward to overtake the army. The prince bore him company for some leagues without the city; then, having taken a warm farewell of his master, returned to Bagdad. He returned to bury himself in the cares of government. It was with great difficulty, however, that he could quiet those fears, hopes, and regrets, those wild emotions which of late had made a chaos of his bosom. He felt himself unfit for the duties which had been assigned him. Love was his lord; at his high bidding he had become a slave, and the allegiance which he owed to another clashed harshly with the submission demanded of him by that exacting tyrant. But the temper of the prince was too firm, if not too upright, to be diverted by motives however powerful from employing all his zeal and activity in the service of his indulgent sovereign. Irksome as were the duties which awaited him in the execution of his trust, yet he bent to them with his accustomed energy; and until the city had recovered from the excitement and disorder into which it had been thrown by the departure of the calif, he ventured hardly to bestow a thought upon his mistress.

The sentence of death which the Commander of the Faithful had passed upon Iahia Ben Abdallah was as yet unexecuted; and although unwilling to be the instrument of his destruction, yet Giafar felt that the commands of his master were imperative, perhaps just, and he durst not disobey them. Accordingly he proceeded forthwith to their fulfilment.

It will be here necessary to explain at some length to the reader, the grounds upon which Iahia Ben Abdallah founded his claim to the califate, and to exhibit the strong hold which he had upon the affections of all Mussulmen, as lineally descended from Mohammed through his daughter Fatima, and from Ali his nephew, son-in-law, and vicegerent.

Ali, the son of Abu Taleb, was one of the earliest and most ardent supporters of Islamism. He was indeed the first who embraced its tenets, with the exception of Cadijah, the wife, and Zeid, the freedman of the Prophet. He was the peculiar favourite of that wonderful enthusiast or impostor, who dignified him with the title of friend, brother, and vicegerent, and gave him to wife his beloved daughter. Although during the lifetime of Mohammed he was looked upon as his legitimate and expected successor, it was not until that high station had been occupied by three intermediate califs, Abubeker, Omar, and Othman, that his right was recognised and his merit rewarded. After the murder of Othman, whom he in vain endeavoured to defend from his enemies, he succeeded to the califate.

Yet his heroic valour and unequalled eloquence could not secure his government from the assaults of faction and rebellion. A conspiracy was formed against him by two powerful chiefs who had been his rivals for the califate. Having suppressed this, he turned his arms against a more dangerous competitor, who arose in the person of Moawiyah, of the house of Ommaides, a relative of the preceding calif, who had appointed him governor of Syria. Under the pretence of avenging the death of his kinsman, he displayed for his standard the skirt* of Othman stained with his blood, and having collected an army of fourscore thousand men, proclaimed himself calif, and prepared to sustain his title and prosecute his revenge.

[*The fingers of his wife were pinned to it; they had been cut off while vainly endeavouring to defend him.]

Ali advanced against him, and in numerous sanguinary though indecisive engagements bore off the advantage. To spare the effusion of Moslem blood he proposed to terminate their quarrel by single combat, but Moawiyah durst not encounter the sword of his invincible rival, the "Lion of God ever victorious,"† as the Prophet himself had named him.

[†Then Ali called out to Moawiyah, "How long shall the people lose their lives between us? Come hither, I challenge you to appeal to the decision of God." Whereupon Amrou said to Moawiyah, "Your cousin has made you a fair proffer." Moawiyah said it was not fair, because that Ali knew that no man ever came out against him, but he killed him.—Ockley, Hist. Saracen.]

In a severe battle which ensued the victory was snatched from the grasp of the lawful calif by an artifice of Moawiyah. At the instigation of his lieutenant, the crafty Amrou, he caused his wavering soldiers to advance with leaves of the Koran fastened to their lances' points, crying out, "This is the book which should decide our differences. This is the book of God between us and you." Upon this the troops of Ali threw down their arms, and the quarrel of the two rivals became the subject of arbitration and treaty. By these Ali was deprived of Syria, a considerable and wealthy portion of his kingdom, and not long after suffered death in a mosque at Cufa, by the hand of a fanatical assassin.

His eldest son Hassan, a man of amiable and pacific disposition, resigned the califate to Moawiyah, and retired to the solitude of a cell near the tomb of his father. Hosein, his youngest brother, was of a different temper. After the death of Moawiyah, at the solicitation of his adherents in Cufa, he crossed the desert with a slight guard, expecting them to rise in great numbers at his appearance. In this he was disappointed. His messenger at Cufa was betrayed and slain. Obeidollah, the governor of that city for Yezid, the son and successor of Moawiyah, had discovered and suppressed the threatened insurrection, and on the plain of Kerbela, Hosein was surrounded by a body of five thousand horse under the command of Amer the son of Said.

"Amer drew up his men," says the historian,* "in the evening of the ninth day of the month Moharram, and came up to Hosein's tent, who was sitting in his door just after evening prayer. As they were advancing, he was leaning upon his sword asleep. His sister Fatima came and waked him, and as he lifted up his head he said, 'I saw the Prophet in my dream, who said, Thou shalt rest with us.' Then she struck her face, and said, 'Woe be to us!' Conditions were denied him by his enemies, and he was summoned to submit himself unreservedly to the mercy of the calif. He desired till morning ere he returned an answer, a favour which was reluctantly granted him, one of Amer's men saying, 'that if a Deilamite, a nation which they mortally hated, had asked such a small request, it ought not to have been refused.' His sister came to him in the night, sighing and weeping over the ruin of their race. 'Alas!' she said, 'for the desolation of our house! I wish I had died yesterday, rather than have lived till to-day; my mother Fatima is dead, and my father Ali, and my brother Hassan! Alas! for the destruction that is past, and the dregs of it that yet remain behind.' Hosien endeavoured to calm and encourage her, and replied, 'Sister, put your trust in God, and depend upon the comfort that comes from him; and know that everything shall perish but the presence of God, who created all things by the word of his power, and shall make them return, and they shall return to him alone. My father was better than I, and my mother was better than I, and my brother was better than I; and I, and they, and every Mussulman has an example in the apostle of God.' He then represented to his friends that he was the only victim which his enemies required, and desired them to leave him, and depart in safety to their homes; but Al Abbas told him they would not, and said, 'God forbid we should ever see the time wherein we should survive you!' Finding that they would not be persuaded, he commanded his followers to cord their tents close together, and fortify them with a trench, so that they should not be surrounded. The remainder of the night was spent in prayer and supplication, while the horsemen of the enemy were riding round about their encampment."

[*Ockley.]

In the morning, having washed and anointed, he perfumed himself with musk, and then mounted on horseback, placing the Koran before him. His little band numbered only thirty-two horse and forty foot; but their slight intrenchment rendered them inaccessible to the horsemen, excepting only in front. The enemy, from compassion, hesitated to commence the combat, and one chief deserted with thirty followers, all choosing the rather to meet death with Hosein than to share the victory with his foes. Various single combats were fought, in all of which Hosein's men were superior, "because they fought like men that were resolved to die." In each close encounter, likewise, the Fatemites were invincible, and their enemies were invariably repulsed by their courage or despair. A body of archers were then brought up, who poured in their arrows upon them so thickly, that all of Hosein's horsemen were dismounted and many killed.

After a short truce, which was allowed for the noon prayers, the fight again recommenced, the enemy still keeping aloof and discharging their arrows, until all of Hosein's followers were severally slain. Overcome with fatigue, he then sat down at the door of his tent, for his reluctant enemies hesitated to attack him. His little son Abdallah, whom he had taken upon his lap, and his nephew, "a beautiful child with jewels in his ears," who ran forth from the tent to embrace him, were both killed in his arms. His mouth was presently pierced with a dart while drinking, and lifting up to Heaven his hands, which were filled with the blood of the children, and his own, for some moments he was lost in prayer. An officer of the enemy, the relentless Shamer, now encouraged his men to surround him. As they approached "he threw himself into the middle of them, charging sometimes on the right and sometimes on the left, and whichsoever way he turned himself, they flew off like so many deer before a lion. At last one wounded him upon the hand, a second upon the neck, while a third thrust him through with a spear. When he was searched there were found upon him three-and-thirty wounds and four-and-thirty bruises."

His body was trampled by their horses' feet into the earth; the head being first out off and sent to Obeidollah. The brutal governor struck it upon the mouth with a cane.* "Alas!" exclaimed an aged Mussulman, "upon these lips have I seen the lips of the Apostle of God." The tombs of Ali and of Hosein "the martyr" are to this day annually visited by their votaries, and the death of the latter is celebrated by the most extravagant lamentations.

[*Gibbon.]

The affecting interest of the preceding relation might perhaps alone excuse its insertion here, but besides this it will serve to exhibit the estimation in which the children of the Prophet's daughter, and of his nephew, are held by the followers of the house of Ali; and to show how that estimation is heightened and increased, even to veneration, by the recital or remembrance of the cruelties which have been inflicted upon the most meritorious of that excellent family. The story of the "Day of Kerbela" must excite the coldest to pity, and the mention of the name rouses in the bosom of a Persian the wildest emotions of sorrow and revenge. Even yet, the admirers and adherents of that as they meet annually together, exalt its merits and recount its sufferings, until grief rises into phrensy, and difference in doctrine becomes a ground for bitter and unforgiving hostility. From the opposite opinions as to the superiority of Ali over all the other successors of the Prophet arises the great schism which still divides the Mohammedan church. The Sonnites, or orthodox, of whom are the Ottomans, esteem the four first califs alone as legitimate imams, and hold them equal: while the Schiites, or heretics, of which number are the Persians of the present day, passing by Abuleke, Omar, and Othman, look upon Ali as the first lawful pontiff, a title which they likewise bestow upon Hassan, Hosein, and the offspring of Hosein to the ninth generation. In all parts of Islam, the descendants of the Prophet are distinguished by peculiar privileges. Even in the Ottoman empire they are the only hereditary nobility; they are entitled to wear a green turban, and to be judged by their chief alone; the meanest and poorest of that house, though clothed in rags, bears the title of emir, or prince, and the most excellent of the race are thought to be more highly gifted than angels.

Of this noble yet unfortunate family was Iahia Ben Abdallah a descendant. He was the grandson of Hassan, the eldest son of Ali, whose right as firstborn, though obscured, and in some measure superseded by the merit and martyrdom of his brother Hosein, still gave to his descendant a claim to the respect and affection, if not the homage of all Islam. The house of Abbas, however, was not without other rights to the throne than those of actual possession. They were descended from an esteemed uncle of the Prophet, and when the first calif of that race raised his standard against the white banner of the house of Ommeyah, he was welcomed as the avenger of the Fatemites; and the gloomy colours which he had chosen were assumed in real or affected mourning for their misfortunes. Well were their injuries avenged; the house of Abbas triumphed, and the blood of the Ommiades drenched the streets of Damascus. A single youth of that family alone escaped, and eluding the pursuit of his enemies traversed Egypt and Mauritania, crossed the Mediterranean into Spain, and founded at Cordova the dynasty of the Ommiades, which for more than two centuries held possession of that fair country.

The power which the Abassides had thus acquired they still retained, and for successive generations they had ruled the East, feared by their enemies, beloved and respected by their subjects, and swaying the sceptre with a hand so firm and vigorous, as to strengthen their power and consolidate it upon the firmest basis. Relying, however, upon the estimation in which his family was held, urged on by hope and ambition, Iahia had thrown himself into the conflict, and during the reign of the present warlike and energetic monarch had raised a body of troops, and proclaimed himself calif in the provinces of Giorgian and Dilem, drawing after him a great number of followers. Fadhel, the elder brother of Giafar, a commander of great ability, had been sent against the rebel, who surrendered to him, having first obtained pardon for his adherents, immunity for his own offence, with the promise of an honourable maintenance at the capital. This treaty had been ratified by Haroun, and Iahia, having pledged fidelity to the calif, came and dwelt in Bagdad.

His life, hitherto, had been retired and apparently blameless. If there was aught in his conduct which demanded scrutiny or deserved punishment, it had escaped the vigilance of the vizier, and knowing the hasty jealousy of the calif's temper, Giafar feared that his commands respecting Iahia might be the result of ill-founded suspicion, and that to fulfil them would blemish his master's honour, of which he was as careful as of his own. He was also not without reluctance to shed that blood which is so sacred to all Mohammedans, unless for a crime clearly shown and well deserving such punishment. But choice was not allowed him. Unwillingly, therefore, and with hesitating steps, accompanied by a slave, he bent his way towards the dwelling of Iahia, for the purpose of executing the sentence which Haroun had passed against him.

It was on the very day upon which the calif had left the city. He had chosen an hour which the indolence of Asiatic manners devotes to seclusion and repose—an hour past midday—when he should not fail of finding his victim. When he arrived at the abode of Iahia, he entered the outer gate without knocking or giving any notice of his approach, and having crossed the court, presented himself at an inner door which gave admission into the more retired portion of the building. A slave there met him, of whom he required to see his master. "He is in the harem, my lord," answered the slave; a reply which, even in matters of more than ordinary importunity, is sufficient in Eastern countries to deter a visitor from pressing his errand. Giafar heeded it not, however, but bending a stern glance upon the slave, bade him inform his master that the vizier required his presence. The slave withdrew, and in a few moments Iahia entered the apartment. He was a man rather beyond the prime of life. He was tall and strong of frame; his dark eye, small and full of motion, denoted the craft which was said to make up a good portion of his character; his chin, far advancing and square, spoke firmness and resolution; while his beard, slightly grizzled, and so trimmed as to project considerably forward, added to the expression of this feature, and rendered it predominant over every other. He wore a dark-coloured caftan, a vest of crimson, and trousers of white. His turban was green, the colour of the house of Ali, and the distinguishing mark of an emir or descendant of the Prophet. He seemed pale and disturbed; his dress was disordered, as though he had just risen from repose, and evinced the hurry and perturbation of mind which prevented him from receiving his guest with that form and dignity which were his due. A thrill as of fear was visible in his countenance, when his eye, after resting for a moment upon the stern features of the prince, who had not yet spoken, turned to his swarthy attendant.

"Thou tremblest," thus Giafar addressed him; "why fearest thou? Is it the consciousness of guilt which causeth thee thus to dread my presence?"

"The hour is unusual, my lord, and of itself would tell me that thine errand is of no common kind; thy brow, too, thus fixed and frowning, which I will remind thee thou hast not worn to me of late, and—" Here he glanced at the slave, and his silence was full of meaning.

"Iahia, son of Hassan, thou shouldst clothe thyself with more firmness. Be mine errand with thee what it may, thou shouldst hear it as becomes a man, and one who is well descended."

"But the time, my lord! thus sudden; when the mind is all unbent—but a moment since surrounded by those dearest to me—wife, children. But I have ill said," he added, checking his emotion; "what matters it the hour? Speak out thine errand, Prince Giafar, since it must be."

Giafar was moved by the words and manner of Iahia, and he hesitated ere he produced the fatal mandate. In a moment, however, he held forth to him the order of the calif for his death, saying, as he placed it in his hands,

" 'Tis written here."

"How! Death!" exclaimed Iahia, after he had glanced at the writing. "Why? for what? How have I deserved this fate?"

"Thou needst not ask!" was the reply. "The sentence, thou seest, has gone forth, and questioning cannot avail thee."

"It cannot be, my lord," said Iahia, collecting himself, and speaking firmly, without faltering, or show of fear. "My safety is shielded by the promise of a noble and generous monarch. He could not prove thus faithless to himself. 'Twere treason against his honour to credit it."

"Thine unbelief will not save thee, Iahia; thy fate is sealed. Yet I will not unduly hasten it. Retire for a space; perform thine ablutions, repeat thy last prayers to Heaven, and then submit with firmness to that doom which thou canst neither resist nor avoid."

"I will not suffer in silence the execution of an unjust decree," was the reply. "I will not yield up my life without calling heaven and earth to witness that I am innocent of aught which deserves such punishment, that I am the victim of falsehood and treach—"

Giafar made a slight motion to the slave, which, however, did not escape the notice of the hapless Iahia. His firmness instantly forsook him, and throwing himself in a posture of supplication at the prince's feet, he exclaimed,

"A moment wait, my lord—till thou hast heard me. If thou wilt pursue thy purpose, if I must suffer, at least refuse not to listen to a few words which I would fain utter in proof of my innocence."

"Speak, then," was the reply; "though the short time which yet remains to thee were better spent in repentance of thy sins and prayers to Allah."

"I speak to one who, like Allah, hath power to dispense life and pardon; one who is just and merciful."

"Thou speakest a worm to his fellow-worm. But rise, address me as man should his equal; the slave hath no power over his brother but as my lord the calif has commanded."

Iahia then rose, and spoke as follows:

"I need not remind thee, my lord, that when I surrendered my person into the hands of thy brother Fadhel, I was at the head of a numerous band of followers. Though inferior in numbers to the army which thy brother commanded, they were nevertheless faithful and resolute, and thou well knowest might have contended obstinately and with some prospect of success for the great prize, to gain which I had perilled my fortune and my life."

The prince, by an inclination of the head, assented.

"Though the chance of war seemed against me, yet the cause which I had espoused was far from desperate. A fortunate encounter, a midnight surprise, nay, a single blow against thy brother's life—and he did not spare himself in the strife—might have rendered me victorious, and would have filled my ranks with thousands who needed but the least glimmering of success to range themselves under my standard. Thus stood my affairs when I proposed to surrender myself into the power of thy brother, upon condition that my life should be spared, and that I should be sent to the court of the calif, there to reside upon an ample maintenance which should be assigned me from the royal treasury. True it is, my lord, that had I been conquered in the war, my life had been forfeited, perhaps those of my whole house, or, at least, want and misery had been their portion. I will not deny that fears like these in some degree governed me in my course. Had they not done so, instead of standing before thee under an unjust sentence of death, I might now be giving laws to Islam. Thou smilest, Prince Giafar—the caprice of fortune and of war have been stranger than this ere now. But it is idle thus to speak. My offer of surrender was accepted by thy brother, confirmed by the calif, and protected, as I thought, by the faith of a noble monarch, I disbanded my followers, and gave up my person, and was sent hither to dwell in Bagdad. Here have I lived, a peaceful subject of the calif, honouring his dignity, submitting to his power, and in all things comporting myself as a loyal and true Mussulman. If either in word or deed I have done otherwise than this, I have forfeited my right to protection. Let it be shown that I am thus guilty, and I will give up my life into thy hands without a murmur. Until then I am shielded by the calif's word even from his own anger."

The cold damp which stood in drops upon his forehead disappeared; a faint flush stole upon his brow, and the pallor of his cheek was usurped by a crimson that hurried thither, and passing, returned again as quickly while he observed the emotion and hesitation that clothed the features of the prince. His voice, too, which despair had rendered calm and steadfast, now became tremulous with hope. He continued earnestly—

"Think, my lord, upon the honour of thy house—regard, too, that of the calif. How will both be stained should the life of one, even though an enemy, be sacrificed in defiance of a sacred pledge to the promptings of ill-founded and unjust suspicion? Thy master's name for truth and uprightness will vanish; the title which he now bears of 'Just,' and which, if report speaks truth, he prizeth above all price, will be lost and torn from him. Men will brand him as a tyrant, and future ages hold up to scorn and detestation that monarch whose fame now fills the measure of the world."

Iahia perceived that Giafar was moved, and without giving him time to reply, he fell at his feet, and seizing the border of his garment, addressed him in these words, which are said by the historian to have affected the prince to such a degree that he was induced to abandon his design, and spare the life of Iahia, although in opposition to the command of his master: "Fear God, and be not of the number of those who at the day of judgment will have the Prophet for their enemy, for that they have dipped their hands in the innocent blood of his descendants."

"Rise, Iahia," replied the prince. "For the present, thy life is safe. I may incur the anger of the calif in slighting his commands, but I would not for the kingdoms of this world, that when in the presence of the judge, my book is opened, it should be found written therein, that a single drop of that blood has been shed unjustly by my hand. Yet give good heed to thy ways. Let not ambition tempt thee from thine allegiance. Choose not treachery for thy portion. Punishment walks with it hand in hand, and will not fail to visit thee, though the merits of thy whole race should plead for thee. Nay, rise," continued Giafar, for Iahia still knelt at his feet pouring forth his gratitude in oaths of fidelity, and in boundless wishes for the prince's welfare—"rise; if thou wouldst indeed repay me, prove by thy life and actions that in thus sparing thee I have not erred. Continue or become a faithful subject, so shall I escape the anger of the calif, and rejoice that I have granted thee thy life, even though in defiance of his vigorous commands."

Renewing his protestations of innocence and thanks, Iahia rose, and summoning his slaves, commanded them to spread a rich collation, and directed one of their number to bring a costly robe, with which he would have clothed the prince.

Giafar coldly refused this mark of Iahia's gratitude, saying, "I will neither eat nor drink in thy house, nor receive any favour at thy hands, until thou art cleared of this stain. Farewell! keep thyself far from treachery and deceit. If thou art already implicated in such guilt, withdraw thyself quickly from it. 'Tis a snare which will prove thy ruin. Thus shalt thou preserve thy life, and render me blameless in having spared it." Having thus said, without remaining to listen to the reiterated vows of fidelity and gratitude which Iahia poured forth, the prince departed.

"Can he deceive me?" thought Giafar, as he returned slowly homeward. "I will watch him closely—I may have erred in dealing thus mercifully with him, and should evil come of it, hardly shall I excuse my conduct to the calif. Yet it is better thus. Rather should ten guilty ones escape punishment, than one innocent suffer unjustly. I think not, in truth, that his balance in the next world will be light, who in this has in aught dealt unjustly by the offspring of the most holy Prophet. Peace be upon him!"

————

CHAPTER IX.

And he, with many feelings, many thoughts, Made up a meditative joy, and found Religious meanings in the forms of nature.

Coleridge.

Not far from the city dwelt a dervis famed for his sanctity and austerity, who had given up the interests of this world, and in solitude devoted himself unceasingly to religious contemplation. He was of the order of the Œulwanys, and was supposed to have been instructed in the rules of the fraternity by the founder of the order, that blessed sheik himself. It was about ten years since he first took possession of his rude cell. His temporal necessities had been continually supplied by the piety and generosity of the citizens, and neither want nor curiosity, during the course of that time, had drawn him from his seclusion.

The spot which he had chosen for his retreat seemed framed by nature for his hallowed purpose. It was a spacious cave, which lay deep in the side of a mountain, formed by huge rocks, piled irregularly one upon the other, the entrance to which was sheltered and narrowed by trees that on all sides, above and around, were dipping their boughs into its gloomy area. Lofty cedars and palms bristled up the ascent of the mountain, while at its base, the dark cypress and the triste willow drooped their heads over a small but beautiful lake. From the side of the mountain, many a hurrying rivulet leaped joyously into its bosom, making in its fall sweet music for the peris, if any there were, that inhabited the depths to which it hastened.

One of these streams had with apparent self-denial left its companions, and turned aside from its course to pass near the cave of the dervis. Here, with ceaseless labour, it had framed a rude basin of stone, for the wants of the recluse, which having filled even to overflowing, as though conscious of delay, it sped with redoubled velocity to rejoin its companions. Here the old man performed his daily ablutions, and from its benevolent stream refreshed the few herbs and flowers which he reared in an adjacent garden. Yet, notwithstanding this expenditure of its waters, the bed of that fountain was never dry, and to many it seemed a miracle that in the long heats of summer, when the waters of the lake became diminished and low, when every other source was withheld, which might give freshness and coolness to its bosom, that stream still poured unceasingly its generous current. It was a beautiful illustration of the merit and reward of almsgiving, that duty so oft inculcated in the Koran; and engraven in the rock, upon its margin, was this appropriate verse from its blessed pages:

"If ye make your alms appear, it is well; but if ye conceal them, and give them unto the poor, this will be better for you, and will atone for your sins, for Allah is well informed of what ye do."

Beautifully variegated fish inhabited the lake, which might be seen shining and flashing far down through its clear waters, and clustering around the green rocks. They were sacred. The entreaties of the good man had obtained for his finny favourites immunity from the treacherous arts of the fisherman; and what had at first been granted as a favour was soon claimed as a right, until, in process of time, it was considered sacrilege to take them. This superstition was strengthened by the belief that mysterious ties existed between the dervis and the inhabitants of those waters. For at noonday, attracted by the freshness of the stream which entered the lake close by the good man's cell, they might be seen crowding to the shore where he stood. Often would he feed them with his hands, and, if rumour might be trusted, in some strange tongue hold converse with them. Some there were, who asserted that while looking upon the surface of the lake, its waters had become agitated, the old man had appeared rising from its waves, and moving on his way as in an element most familiar to him. These strange rumours injured in no degree the reputation of the recluse for sanctity, which was unbounded; nay, there were many who esteemed more highly the old man's virtues, when they supposed him to possess some power, or art, beyond the ordinary limits of our nature.

His learning was extensive. None equalled him in ancient lore, none knew so well the customs and manners of foreign lands, and none explained and commented on the Koran with the fervour and clearness of Sheik Ibrahim. Many a repentant Moslem has returned from the holy father's cell, lightened of his sorrow, and cheered by the words of the book of promise, as they have been adapted to his spiritual wants by the ingenuity of that good man. The armed warrior, when going forth to fight the battles of the Most High, oft stooped from his caparisoned steed to receive the blessing of Allah, at the hands of his aged servant. Many a lovely Persian maiden has stolen from the gay walls of the harem, to seek the sacred solitude of his dwelling; often for the comforts of religion, but oftener to enjoy the freer air of those delightful woods, and to talk with one who could tell them tales of distant lands, varying thus pleasingly the monotony of their secluded lives. Attentively would they listen, as he rehearsed to them the bold and masculine manners of the Western dames, how they scrupled not to go unveiled, to sit in the assembly of warriors, and to crown the conqueror with their own fair hands; and at the recital they would blush and rail. Yet oftener pure religion was the sage's theme, and that excellent philosophy which, if it cannot sweeten the cup of misfortune, can, by its influence, render him that drinketh insensible to its bitterness.

Hither had the beautiful Abassa often wandered, to minister to the temporal necessities of the recluse, and to receive instruction from his lips. Various were his lessons; astrology, history, tales of foreign countries, their climes, their manners, and their wonders, all were imparted to her, and in a style which showed that the narrator had in person beheld those things which he recounted. He had instilled into her mind the principles of religion, and told her that its aim was to make man tolerant and happy. He had taught her to judge with lenity of the faults of others, and was well pleased to see the delight with which her pure and flexible spirit received these truths. Her presence was always welcome to the good old man, nor was the princess's pleasure less in listening to the sage's lessons. It was no task to her to pass long hours in his cell, and while she revered him for his sanctity, repeated and delightful intercourse taught the maiden to love him as a parent and an instructor.

Why comes she trembling now? what is it moves her? Her attendants are left without the wood; she has descended from her litter, and proceeds on foot towards the sage's cell. For the first time she comes with a lingering step. Now she hesitates upon her path, and seems to doubt whether to proceed or to retrace the road. Then, as with an effort conquering her timidity, she hurries forward to gain the cell, ere her fears again rally to oppose her progress. Why is this? whence proceeds this irresolution? Why, when she has reached the cave, does she recoil, as though some robber of the desert lay there concealed? She is not the same Abassa that she once was. Then, as she came bounding along to meet the sheik, how light and joyous was her step, and how mirthful her countenance! But she is all changed. That bosom where peace dwelt, is now tenanted by a passion that can brook no rival in power, that is rarely content until he has reduced, under his imperious sway, every thought, every wish, every hope. He enters, too, with a restless train of jealousies and fears, which, eager to assert the supremacy of their master, are active in expelling those calmer inmates, that fill yet oppress not the bosom.

When she left her home to seek the sacred city the very birds were not so happy—so careless as she. She knew not sadness then, for she knew not love. The attention of the vizier Giafar, his care for her safety and comfort upon that trying journey, had sunk deeply into her heart, while his accomplishments had interested and delighted her. She ventured not to interpret his soft tones, his now earnest, now hesitating language, as an evidence of his admiration; yet from that moment so critical to them both, when she beheld his eyes fastened in rapture upon her unveiled countenance, she could doubt no longer. She sighed to herself the secret that she was beloved. She had now found, as it were, a key to that subject of which she had ignorantly read so much, of which poets had written, and she had dreamed. Verses which she had formerly sung sweetly, yet without thought, now covered her face with blushes, and filled her bosom with a strange confusion.

What wonder was it that she should hesitate, that she should tremble as she drew near the dwelling of the recluse. The thought, though it were but half formed, of concealment, threw around her an air of distrust, which affected her deportment the more that she was unaccustomed to its influence. When she last left the old man her bosom kept from him no secret; he read there as in a book displayed, all—even her most secret thoughts. But now, love had written there with a pen of fire, had timorously rolled up the scroll, and had sealed it with his own seal. How mysterious are his ways! These frail barriers to the strong hand of authority become like iron—they yield not to force. Friendship, with its gentle and dexterous touch, can alone undo them, and disclose a secret thus defended.

She knocked lightly at the rude door of the cave, and a voice from within was heard saying "Enter. Thou art welcome, daughter," exclaimed the venerable man, who came forward to meet her with gladness beaming in his countenance—"welcome as the morning to him that watcheth. But why hast thou tarried thus from my poor dwelling? 'Tis long since thou hast honoured it with thy presence."

"Ah, say not honoured!" exclaimed Abassa;

"how can mortal honour that which is consecrated to Heaven? When I first entered this cell I felt like some unhallowed thing, passing within the enclosure of a sanctuary. I feel thus still, and though thy kind care, thy soothing words, have in part dispelled that awe, yet the charm is not all broken—nor would I wish it, for 'tis woven, as I think, by no malicious power—but thy blessing, father."

"The blessing of Allah be upon thee, my child, and the presence of his holy Apostle, upon whom be salvation and the peace of God!" said the dervis, his face being towards the holy city, and his arms extended over the bending form of the princess.

"I had need of thy blessings father," said Abassa, heaving a long repressed sigh; "my bosom is now lighter than it was."

"What troubleth thee, maiden? Why hast thou not sought my presence ere this? Many days have elapsed since thou hast returned from Mecca. I thought that the sun would not rise and set upon thee in Bagdad, until thou hadst visited my cell. I have looked daily for thee, and I knew not before how much the happiness of an old man depended upon creatures of clay." A tear was visible in the eye of the sage, and he spoke in a reproachful tone, which melted at once the heart of the maiden.

"Forgive me!" she exclaimed; "not a day has passed since my return that I have not purposed to visit thy solitude, but there has been that here that has kept me back." As the princess said this she pressed her hand upon her bosom, and added, "I feared to come."

"Feared! my daughter," said the sheik; "none but the wicked fear this solitude. But tell me, what has troubled thus thy peace? Wilt thou not answer?" Her features mantled with crimson and she answered not. "The air is cool and balmy," continued the old man, in a kind, encouraging tone; "come, let us walk together under the shade of yon palm trees; there thou wilt unfold to me all that is concealed within thy breast, and fear not that the bosom of Sheik Ibrahim is an unsafe depository for the secrets of a maiden."

Abassa led the way. She had drawn aside her veil while in the cave for the purpose of seeing with more distinctness the features of her venerable friend, and when she came into the open day heeded not that her face was still uncovered. Well was it for the happiness of Father Ibrahim that his thoughts were fixed on Heaven—that, buried in devotion, he heeded not the outward form and beauty of woman. Yet many there are, I ween, who would deem it a surer safeguard to his peace, that age had chilled with its ice the old man's bosom, and staid with a palsying hand the sluggish current in his veins. To what a drear cold region are we all hastening! The chill which binds the Arctic in ice equals it not. Let the warm sun shine down upon its chains, and they are at once dissolved, but beauty's noon cannot release from its icy fetters imprisoned age.

The sage looked upon her sunny beauty unmoved, yet with admiration, for an unusual colour had come to her cheek that day. Benevolence swelled in his bosom as he gazed upon her. It was as though his eye had rested with delight upon some fair edifice: it was not his; yet he had adorned it with his own hands, he had embellished it with furniture costly and rare, and he looked anxiously that it should find an owner worthy of the fair possession—one who would prize it as he ought. Yet for him, content dwelt within his humble cell. The sun had declined well down the horizon—the breeze came freshly through the waving boughs, roughening with its pure breath the lake. Hardly a sound was heard around them—their very footsteps were distinctly audible, though they trod upon a carpet of soft verdure, with which nature had clothed the borders of the mountain. The hour was sweet—its influence sank into their souls. "How delightful is this retirement!" said the hermit; "could you not give up the world to live at peace in such a spot?"

"It is not permitted a Persian damsel to choose," replied Abassa. "Thou hast told me that far away to the west, maidens devote their days to solitude and religion, but with us it is not so—why dost thou ask, father? Thou knowest I could not, if I would."

"My question has no meaning beyond its surface,"

answered the old man. "I would know what value thou placest upon this world and its pleasures. Couldst thou not resign them all, did religion require it of thee?"

"I could, I think—rich jewels and robes, our dear baths—yes, yes, I could—music—the song of our poets, and—" She blushed and hesitated.

"Tell me freely, my child," said the recluse, "couldst thou not?"

"Do not try my spirit, father," answered the maiden. "Thou knowest how dear this life is to me, thou hast thyself done much to render it so. Thou hast stored my mind with knowledge, thou hast taught me to study the heavens and the earth, and as in a scroll unfolded, read there with delight. My father, my mother, friends well beloved, bind me here. The ear, the eye, every sense brings to me some pleasure, and thou thyself hast told me to enjoy them. Thou hast told me how oft man's folly defeats the benevolent designs of Heaven, and that abstinence and satiety are equally crimes; why should I deprive myself of all these? besides, I am not mine own."

"No, thy father's."

"Not his, good Ibrahim; he has given me to another."

"Another?"

"Promised me, I meant to say."

The blood recoiled to the maiden's heart as she spoke, and her cheek and lips were left pale, while a strange mingling of sensations, of which pleasure made up the greatest part, forced a tear down her cheek, that had by this time regained its colour. She wiped the moisture from her eyes, and covering her face with her veil, sought to hide those feelings which a maiden would conceal from all but her lover. Father Ibrahim mistook her emotion, and with the deepest interest inquired to whom she was betrothed. He received no answer. "Art thou to be sent far away, a victim of state policy, to be made the seal of an alliance with some powerful tyrant that will not know thy worth?"

"Who is there to whom my father would consign me?" replied the princess. "The emperors of Roum and Frangistan are infidels, and he would turn with disdain as I should with horror from such an alliance. The princes of Spain and Egypt, though professors of our holy faith, are enemies of the house of Abbas. No, I am to remain with you."

"Allah be praised!" exclaimed the dervis. "I was a fool to think it. No one that knows thy worth would part with thee, and thy father loves thee well. But who is there worthy of thy hand?"

"Knowest thou no one that may deserve me?" said the maiden, timidly.

"Yes, there is one, thine equal in every quality, save that a busy intercourse with this rude world has made stern his soul and rendered him less gentle, less mild than he should be to whose keeping thy happiness is to be intrusted. I speak of Giafar al Barmeki."

"Thou hast guessed rightly, father," said the maiden, tremblingly—"it is he. I am glad that thou thinkest highly of him."

"Can it be!" exclaimed the old man. "Has Heaven granted my prayer? I rejoice to hear it. Allah be praised! He alone is worthy of thee."

"Am I not fortunate, then," said the princess, after a short silence—"fortunate as the damsels of the West, that wait not to be wooed, but boldly court the husband of their choice?"

"Fortune has indeed smiled upon thee," rejoined the sage, "if thine own wishes respond to thy father's will, if thy heart is given where thou must per force bestow thy hand. Yet speak not so harshly of European maidens. Accuse them not of forward boldness. Their cheeks would redden at the charge."

"I speak but as thou hast told me, father," said Abassa.

"Thou hast strangely misinterpreted my words. In their speech, modesty and restraint reign unceasingly, and if they woo, 'tis but with bright glances, and the winning attitudes of their lovely forms."

"It matters little, good father. Is there not a voice in the eyes as intelligible and powerful as speech? Methinks neither with looks nor words should a maiden woo a lover. The rose invites not him that is without to enter and pluck it from its stem, neither when he approaches who has permission from the master of the garden, does its bloom heighten or its fragrance increase to entice him."

"But were it thy doom to be sent far away, as the bride of some prince thou hadst never known or beheld, wouldst thou not then envy the liberty which the maidens of the West enjoy?"

"I cannot tell," answered Abassa. "Freedom that we know not, we do not desire. I have long looked upon my fate as in my father's hands, and have rested secure. Even were that lot mine of which you speak, I might be content. I could bear it I think. But I will not nerve my mind to evils that present themselves not. My father's kindness has fixed me here. The plant flourishes yet where it has been reared; when the wind scattereth its leaves, may they be strewn upon the plain it has adorned."

"Hark!" said Father Ibrahim, as the distant voice of the muezzin gained his ear, "to prayer! to prayer! Hear you not the holy summons?"

They both knelt upon a small carpet, which the hermit spread upon the ground, and said the namaz of the afternoon. The prayer over, they rose, and perceived they were not alone in their devotions.

"Who can it be kneeling yonder?" said Father Ibrahim, who first discovered the presence of the intruder. "Remain here, my child, I will accost him. Stay—he rises—'tis the Prince Giafar. Mine eyes have not looked upon him these many moons. Shall he not approach?"

"As thou willest," said the maiden, adjusting carefully her veil. "My presence shall be no bar upon your wishes."

The old man, then, by his looks and gestures, invited the prince to draw near.

————

CHAPTER X.

In silence bowed the virgin's head; And if her eye was filled with tears, That stifled feeling dared not shed, And changed her cheek from pale to red, And red to pale, as through her ears Those winged words like arrows sped; What could such be but maiden fears?

Bride of Abydos.

Giafar came forward, and stooping to the old man's feet, kissed the border of his garment. The customary salutation of peace then passed between the Princess Abassa and himself, accompanied by a mutual bend of courtesy, with the right hand to the breast, the prince carrying his hand to his forehead, and shading his eyes in token of great respect, as though in the presence of one too sacred to be gazed upon.

"I am in the presence of the Princess Abassa?" he said, inquiringly. An inclination of the head answered this interrogatory in the affirmative. "An idle question; veiled as thou art, fair lady, mine eyes would know thee amid a thousand. Allah shower down his choicest blessings on thee, and make thee happier even than thou art How hast thou fared, good father?"

"Well, well, my son; though my mind would have been more at ease than it is, had I seen thee ere this. I feared lest I had been forgotten by some who are most dear to me."

"Thou couldst not think it, father," said the prince. "Business of much moment has kept me from thy solitude. The burden of state is upon my shoulders; I am wearied with its weight. Distracting thoughts, too, have been working upon my mind, and rousing it into phrensy. All these thou shalt know, yet do not reproach me."

"Nay, I complain not, my son, this life is not all sunshine. Rather is it 'a tempest in the night; at times it lightens, and at times we are left in darkness.' But why is thy bosom thus disturbed? Where is thy firmness, where thy fortitude, with which thou hast so often striven against the ills of life?"

" 'Tis gone," replied the prince. "It has deserted me. My courage, too, has flown—nay, wonder not, I speak truly, father, or why am I here? Why am I not by the side of my noble master, now, when he has most need? It had not happened thus," he added, despondingly, "but that all manhood has left my bosom."

"Peace has its claims as well as war," said the princess. "Is it not duty that keeps thee here?"

"I thank thee, lady, for thy words. Thou art kind and gentle—thou wouldst pour balm into my wounds, and there is no hand can do it, save thine, on this side the grave. Yet I deserve not this kindness from thee. Far from my thoughts were duty and honour when I wished to remain behind. When thy noble father consigned his kingdom to my charge, I murmured not. I might perchance have wrung from him his consent that I might share with my brave brothers the dangers of this war; but no entreaty, no prayer escaped my lips, for—why should I disguise the truth? though it might well shame me to confess it—here was I bound. Chains, strong though unseen, were fastened upon me, and held me here—nay, listen to me; I have much desired this meeting. I have long wished to see thee, to know from thine own lips my fate. Knowest thou this scroll?"

As the prince spoke, he held to view the letter which he had received from the princess, at the hands of her father. "Do not avert thy head. Is not the writing thine?"

"It is, my lord," replied Abassa, after a moment's hesitation.

"Didst thou, fairest lady, of thine own free will write these lines? or was it at the command of another?"

"Canst thou ask, Prince Giafar?" replied the maiden. "Thou deemest but lightly of my pride, if thou thinkest that, unadvised, nay, uncontrolled, I sent those lines to thee. They were dictated by one who has a right to guide my pen!"

"Thy father? I was sure of it," interrupted the prince.

"Thou art right," rejoined the maiden. "Nothing but his rigorous command could have rendered me so forgetful of myself, so unmindful of the pride, the honour of a maiden."

"Yet had thy heart no part in what is written here? Stay—hear me for a moment. Thy father, thou knowest, offers me thy hand. The treasure is inestimable—its value cannot be told. To possess it there is no sacrifice that I would not make, no danger that I would not dare. But I would refuse even a boon so dear, unless of thine own choice thou wilt bestow it upon thy slave. A life of happiness were dearly purchased, by a single sigh or tear from thee. Yet give me to know that I have found favour in thine eyes, that in some little part thy soul has prompted the lines here written within this parchment; give me but to hope this, and my happiness is sealed."

The princess trembled, but answered nothing.

"Thou knowest not, fairest princess, the power thou hast over me. In visions of the night thou art present to my senses, and through the day thine image is ever near me. The pains of love of which I have often heard, but doubtingly, I now know to be realities; emotions that I once thought held their existence but in the poet's fancy, are now burning here."

As the prince said this, he placed his hand upon his bosom. His words glowed with love and pathos, his voice trembled, and he pressed his suit in a manner too impassioned to please the ears of the inexperienced maiden. She was about to leave him, when he exclaimed, "Turn not away—listen to me yet a moment—nay, I will not, then, address thee in the language of passion, though were I thus to speak my words would breathe of fire. If thou wilt pass the pleasant hours with one who will be thy slave, if thou wilt reign queen of my palace and of my heart, speak but the word, and they are thine. Thou art skilled in all the accomplishments that can adorn thy sex. Thou art versed in the lore of the sage and of the poet. If these pleasures can tempt thee, they shall all be thine. Learning from all lands shall be brought to us—the sweetest poets shall sing their lays. Mansor and Isaac shall tune their sweet lutes, and the rich voice of Mousali shall beguile the hours away, if they should linger. Though bred to war, I am not a stranger to those pleasures which thou lovest so well, and thou wilt soften and refine me; thou wilt assimilate me to thyself, and daily I shall become more worthy of thee. In the winter thou shalt reign in my palace, and no pomp or pleasure which thou now enjoyest shall fail thee there. In the warm summer thou mayst wander upon the river's banks, and roam at will, through my spacious gardens that skirt its margin. I know they are unworthy of thee. If I could offer thee this world with its treasures, it were too poor a price to give in exchange for thee. Yet reject me not, for I offer to thee all."

Abassa spoke not. Her bosom heaved tumultuously, and one hand stole beneath her veil to wipe away the tears that she felt trickling down her cheeks. "Wherefore dost thou hesitate?" continued the impassioned Giafar, persuasively. "Reject me not. Tell me that thou wilt be mine. Thou wilt not? Frame but one single word. Light of mine eyes! answer me, yes. Thou canst easily speak it. Thou wilt not reply then—thou wilt not!" exclaimed the prince, despairingly. "I cannot resign thee thus. If not with words, tell me with a look. If thou wilt accept me, if thou wilt not make me wretched, look up upon thy slave, turn but for a moment thine eyes upon him, and let him live."

Her veil was partly drawn aside, and slowly the beautiful princess turned her eyes upon him. For a moment they dwelt, they reposed on his. They were floating in tears, and though no other feature of her face was distinctly visible, in their sweet expression Giafar read all that he wished to know. In that glance were visible, love, dependance, confidence, and a thousand feelings that words well chosen and devised would have failed as perfectly to express. In a moment her eyes were again cast down, and her face covered completely with her veil. "I thank thee, Allah," exclaimed the vizier, tremulously, while he covered his face with his caftan, to conceal the emotions that were unmanning him.

Father Ibrahim had taken no part in this conversation, and had even withdrawn a few paces that his presence might lay no restraint upon their meeting, yet not to so great a distance as to render the interview strictly a private one. But it had lasted longer, and was more free in its nature, than custom permitted to the sexes, and he now stepped forward to put an end to its privacy. Abassa noticed the intention of the dervis, and was instantly sensible of her error. "I will go, father," she said. "Do not blame me—I have erred, but it has been unthinkingly. Forget, my lord, that thou has seen and spoken with me. Let me not forfeit thine esteem—forget this casual meeting, and when my father shall return, his will shall in all things be mine."

"Forget it! now, by the right hand of our sacred Prophet! never can it pass from my remembrance. It has been the dearest moment of my life, and death alone with its gathering shadows can efface its memory. But thou hast erred in nothing—thou hast done naught that thine own father would not approve and sanction, he left me as the guardian of his household, gave me permission to see and speak at times, even with thee, and with the liberty he failed not to give the power to do so. Here is the proof that I deceive thee not; with this talisman the doors even of the harem open to me. Dost thou not know it?" As Giafar said this he pointed to a ruby ring which glittered upon his finger.

The princess gazed upon it intently, and the sight of the jewel seemed to awaken in her bosom strange and unusual emotion, in which Father

Ibrahim apparently participated. "That ring! whence had you it, my lord?" she exclaimed, eagerly.

"From thy father. He placed it in my hands the evening preceding his departure for the army."

"Strange! Did he present you with this as with an ordinary jewel, or was it reluctantly and with fear? Never thought I to see that ring on the finger of another."

"The calif seemed impressed with a strange dread as he consigned the jewel to my possession, and shuddering told me that it had been recovered in a mysterious manner from the waters of the Tigris. He spoke also of the being who brought his lost treasure from the deep, and of words uttered by him which still haunted his memory."

"Let me look upon the jewel," said the dervis. The old man gazed upon it attentively, then turning to the princess, said, "How long is it since the occurrence of this strange event?"

"It is about ten years since that memorable day," replied the princess.

"Wilt thou not tell the tale as it occurred, my daughter?"

"Most willingly," said Abassa. "Though but a child then, yet I have heard my father oft tell the story, and with an earnestness which has imprinted it for ever upon my memory."

They reclined at the foot of a spreading palm tree, and the princess commenced as follows:—

————

CHAPTER XI.

'Tis very strange.

Hamlet.

"The ring which thou hast now upon thy finger, Prince Giafar, was a gift from my grandfather Mahadi to my father. It was a pledge of his succession to the throne, after the death of his brother Hadi, to whom as eldest born the kingdom of right descended. Mahadi died (peace be with him!), and his eldest son succeeded to the crown. Yet scarcely was he seated upon the throne, when, forgetful of his father's wishes, he intrigued to transfer the succession from my father to his son Giafar, who at that time was a mere infant. The principal officers of the court were sounded and gained. All, with the exception of thy venerable father, were the ready and submissive instruments of the tyrant's ambition. The venerable Iahia alone remained firm. He was resolved to oppose so flagrant a violation of the will of the deceased calif, and as he held the office of vizier, and possessed reputation for great prudence and ability, his opposition was for a long time successful. 'Act not thus unjustly,' said thy father to the ambitious calif, 'lest all Islam rise up against thee. The people will not reverence a child even though he be clothed with the mantle of the Prophet. One who cannot pray in the mosque, and exhort the Mussulmen to piety, who cannot lead our warriors to battle, and our pilgrims to the sacred city, merits not surely the title of Emirul Mummininn.* Beware, lest in trying to place the sceptre in the hands of thine offspring, it be wrested from thine own grasp.' The firmness of thy father was for a time sufficient to prevent the calif from openly pursuing his purpose. He craftily assented to his vizier's advice, and feigned to have banished from his mind his unjust design.

[*Commander of the Faithful.]

"Meanwhile my father's actions were closely watched. His friends were withdrawn, one by one, from about his person, and sent on various pretexts abroad, and he was surrounded by the creatures of the calif's will. All offices and posts of honour were denied him, neither was he allowed admission into the army, lest he should gain in a greater degree the affection of the soldiery, who already loved him, and whom, at the early age of nineteen, he had led to the walls of Constantinople.

"Yet all hope was not denied him. That sacred jewel, which might purchase an emir's ransom, was still in his possession. As often as he looked upon it his courage revived; for in it be beheld, as it were, a pledge that he should outlive the snares with which his unnatural brother was surrounding him, and wear the crown which his father destined for his brow. Often has my father assured me that the ruby has faded, and become dim, upon the eve of misfortune, warning him of its approach with unerring certainty; that in the midst of gloom and peril, when his soul was sunk in despondency, it has brightened in colour to his fancy, inspiring him with fresh hopes and renewed courage. He saw, as it were, the watchful eye of his deceased father looking out from the gem, alternately cheering and warning him. It was his only hope, his only solace.

"One day, while walking along the banks of the river, musing on his fortunes, he perceived an officer of the calif advancing towards him. He was alone, and unarmed, and the stern Harthamah who drew near was his enemy, and a fit instrument for an errand of blood. The Tigris, too, rolled sullenly by, ready to cover with its waters the foul deed. He looked upon the ring—a dim mist obscured its brightness. Hope vanished, and death seemed drawing nigh. Then it was that he made that vow so well known and faithfully observed. Prostrating his forehead in the wet sands of the river's bank, he besought the aid of the great Prophet of our faith, and vowed, that if the hand of Allah should avert the present danger, he would visit on foot the holy shrine at Mecca, and pay there the devotion of a grateful heart. He arose, strengthened and reassured. He cast a look upon the jewel—it was bright and smiling; and he awaited with firmness the purpose of the calif.

"Harthamah approached, and rudely demanded, on the part of his master, the ring which my father so highly valued. On hearing this unjust demand his rage was unbounded, and bitterly upbraiding his brother's tyranny, he drew the jewel from his finger. It glittered for a moment in the eyes of the expecting officer, and was then hurled far into the midst of the river. After a day of fear and anxiety my father retired to rest, but no sleep refreshed his senses. At the dead of night, he heard a voice calling upon his name. The sound, fraught with gloom and ill omened, filled his firm soul with dread. It seemed the voice of Azrael when he calls the soul away, and bids it depart from its frail, its earthly tenement. Raising himself from his couch, he snatched his scimitar which lay near, and went forth. Upon the threshold he encountered Harthamah, who fell prostrate at his feet, then rose, and led him in strange silence to the calif's chamber. Here, having drawn aside the curtains of the royal couch, he disclosed to him the lifeless body of his brother. The hand of God had stricken Hadi with death, and the mantle of the Prophet fell upon the shoulders of my father."

"Allah ackbar! God is great! God is good!" exclaimed the dervis and prince simultaneously.

"Go on, my child, thou hast yet more to say."

The recital of her father's danger and deliverance had so overpowered Abassa, that for a time she was unable to proceed. In a few moments, however, she subdued her emotion, and continued.

"No sooner was my father seated on the throne, than his mind reverted to the ring. Inconsolable for its loss, he invited, with promise of great reward, divers to repair from all parts of the kingdom to seek for his lost treasure. All were foiled in their attempts; the most practised in the art had been repeatedly unsuccessful, and the calif despaired of its recovery.

"At the close of one of those days which my father was accustomed to spend with his courtiers on the banks of the river, encouraging and rewarding new attempts, an old man presented himself, and offered, with assurance of success, to dive for the jewel. Wretched poverty seemed his lot. His dress was tattered, his face and person blackened and travel soiled, and he wore the cap and belt of a miserable Giaour. My father gazed upon the infidel, smiled scornfully, and replied,

" 'Thou wearest the garb of an accursed race. Can good come from a source unholy? Canst thou range the depths of these waters, and restore to me a treasure sacred and long lost?'

" 'Doubt it not' said the Giaour. 'If the swift stream has not hurried it far from hence, ere yon sun shall set the jewel shall sparkle upon thy finger.'

" 'But thy limbs are feeble, old man, and the most skilful divers of the East have in vain essayed the task. Thou canst not do this, save by magic or some accursed art, and I warn thee, at peril of thy life, beware! practise not in my presence thy foul craft.'

" 'Fear not,' replied the infidel, with calmness, 'but cast this leaden circle far into the stream, as near as thou well canst upon the spot where the waters swallowed up thy treasure.'

"So saying, he placed in my father's hands a ring of lead, which the calif for a moment scrutinized, to see if magical or cabalistic characters were inscribed thereon, and then pronouncing aloud one of the attributes of Allah, he cast it into the Tigris. The stranger watched it as it fell, and then, with a mighty bound, plunged into the stream. The waters settled stilly over his head, and all awaited in breathless silence his reappearance. A few minutes elapsed, which suspense rendered doubly long to the minds of the astonished spectators.

" ' 'Tis the work of Eblis!' exclaimed my father; 'what mortal could exist so long beneath the waves?' As he spoke, a being arose from the waters bearing the long-lost ring. His countenance was benign, his white hair fell down upon his shoulders, and the waters seemed to open a way before him as he moved along. Nay, smile not so incredulously. I but tell the tale my father told to me. He wore a robe of blue silk, the ordinary habit of a dervis, yet encircling his waist was the accursed belt, that declared him a worshipper, perhaps a spirit of the forbidden fire. Slowly and majestically he drew near to where the calif stood, while wondering at the change, all drew back as he approached. Even my father was, as he has since said, awed at his presence, and received the ring at his hands in silence.

" 'It is the same,' he said at last, pressing it to his lips and forehead. 'Strange being! by whatsoever power thou hast redeemed this treasure from the waters, I will not question thee. From Allah I receive it, who often performs the noblest works by wicked hands. Thou wearest the badge of an unholy creed, a sect that I abhor, whose very name I have hunted from the face of my kingdom, yet for all this the favour which thou hast conferred upon me is not lessened in mine eyes, and thy reward shall not be unworthy of it. Ask of me any gift that as prince or pontiff I can rightfully bestow, and it is thine.'

" 'Proud prince!' was the calm reply, 'I refuse not thy boon. At an hour when thou lookest not for me, I will be with thee and demand it. Yet ere I depart, hear this counsel, if thou wilt hear aught from the lips of a Giaour. Beware of thy friends, for they alone will do thee mortal hurt. From thy foes thou shalt reap honour, wealth, and power. The arm of thy father's son has sought thy life; the voice of an enemy called thee to the throne left vacant by the death of thy treacherous brother; the hand of a hated infidel has brought to thee a treasure much valued, long despaired of. Thus will it be ever with thee. Rejoice, stern monarch, when thou shalt hear of battles, advancing foes, and hostile banners, here thou shalt triumph, but heed me when I say, beware of those most dear to thee, and above all, give to no man, though thou shouldst love him better than a brother, the ring that an outcast has restored to thee.' So saying, the old man turned, and departing from the crowd, was soon lost to view."

When the princess had finished this recital, there was silence, and all were busied with their musings as they pondered on the strange tale. Fearful forebodings fell upon the mind of the vizier; for in the uncertain and obscure future he saw the possibility of the fulfilment of the Giaour's warning. He trembled fearfully, yet he was able to conceal his emotion, though he could not shake off those fears which the preceding recital, like the raven's croak, harsh and ill omened, had awakened in his bosom. Gloom affected also the mind of the princess, for though but half informed of her future lot, yet when she called to mind the words of the infidel, sadness darkened upon her soul and she wept. The sage seemed to be interested, in an unusual degree, in what he had heard, yet his countenance wore an expression of unruffled serenity. He was the first to break the silence.

"My children, listen not to those who prophesy of things to come, as though they were of the counsel of the Most High. Allah, and the angels to whom he opens the book of his decrees, can alone tell us of the future. Give no heed to those who pretend to more than human knowledge. Falsehood is upon their lips, and deceit in their bosoms."

"I have learned from thee, father," replied the princess, "to distrust all tales of magic and enchantment, yet I cannot tell how the events of that day have been performed, save by some power that is not of man."

"Why dost thou think thus?" said the dervis. "The diver who seeks for pearls in the ocean might with ease explore the channelled bosom of an inland stream, and reveal to light the secrets which lie concealed within its depths. There is naught of magic in this."

"True, father," replied the princess, "but the mysterious change in the appearance of that man, his knowledge of the past, and his strange warning of the future, these, oh these, are what perplex my mind."

"Be at rest, my daughter," said the dervis. "I will ponder upon the matter, and it may be that when we meet again I can explain even these wonders to thee."

Giafar listened anxiously to the endeavours of the dervis to allay the princess's fears, but his face still remained clouded with despondency, and when the departure of Abassa left him alone with the recluse, he exclaimed, "It is in vain, father; thou canst not alter the decrees of fate. Though the soul of the Grecian Aflatoun* spoke through thy lips, still there if is mystery, a horror in this story, which thy words cannot dispel. The Giaour spoke truth, and the future conceals a danger that I dread to contemplate. Why did my master place this jewel in my hands, or why, rather, did he offer to me a treasure more precious than a universe of rubies, yet rife with temptation, disobedience, and danger?"

[*Plato.]

"Forbear, my lord! Start not at the phantoms which thine own fears have conjured up. Where threatens danger but in thine own fancy? Fortune now looks upon thee smilingly; the ties with which friendship has bound thee to the calif are to be strengthened soon by one far nearer and more binding. Thy very happiness, I fear, has turned thy brain, and thou art framing sorrows from thine own imaginings, since they exist not in reality."

"Sayst thou so?" replied the prince; "then listen to me."

Giafar then related, in a few words, all the purpose and command of the calif in regard to his union with his daughter. After listening attentively to his words, the countenance of the old man drooped.

"I understand thee now," he said. "I see the source of all thy fears. In truth, thou hast much cause for them. Yet everything depends upon thy firmness, and thou art not destitute of this. Hear me. Prince Giafar; know thyself well, before it be too late. Search what of resolution and self-control is in thy bosom; look well, too, at the strong temptation that will assail thee, that will lead thee to forfeit thine honour, and to break the faith pledged to thy master. Let not the wild passion of youth impel thee down a precipice, where happiness, life, and honour will be all ingulfed. Look well at this, I beseech thee. If it were thou alone who should incur this ruin, I would adjure thee turn thy footsteps from the danger, for thy loss would pour down sorrow upon mine old head. But it is not for thee alone; those dearest to us both must suffer if thou errest, and the sun of life which with me has near gone down, must set in gloom and sorrow."

Giafar's lips quivered with emotion, and his frame heaved convulsively, as the firm earth is shaken when the elements are roused which lie pent up within its bosom.

"It is too late," he said. "I have accepted the offer of the calif; our approaching nuptials have been rumoured abroad, and now to retract would bring upon my head my master's fierce displeasure. I cannot now retrace my steps, and I am glad that it is thus. I would not alter my decision, and for worlds I would not again endure the fierce strife of passion, the throes of agony, that gave birth to a purpose so critical, so perilous. Farewell."

"Stay with me, my son," said the dervis. "Let me whisper to thee peace."

" 'Tis not the time now!" exclaimed the prince. "In the whirlwind of my soul thy words would be unheard, unheeded."

"Consolation he will not regard," said the old man, gazing after him in sorrow; " 'tis lost upon him. So is the sweet sound of the lute drowned by the harsh clang of trumpets. How wonderful are Heaven's ways!" he continued, as he returned slowly to his cell. "I am like a child who has wielded the spell of some dread magician, and trembles at the lightning, and thunder, and darkness that gather and gleam around him, and the wild forms which he has conjured up unwittingly with imprudent hands."

————

CHAPTER XII.

Oh, passing traitor! perjured and unjust!

Shakspeare.

After his interview with Abassa at the cave of the dervis, and the relation of the strange and threatening tale which he had heard from her lips, Giafar relaxed in some degree from that strict attention to the business of state, for which he had been ever remarkable. His heart was filled with the beauty of the princess; doubts and forebodings, too, overshadowed his spirits, and rendered him alike unmindful of the present, and fearful of the future. He could not long conceal this remissness from himself. He soon became sensible that for many days he had too exclusively devoted his time and thoughts to his own personal affairs, and conscious of his error, he roused himself from inaction, and resolved to bend with more than ordinary severity to those labours which duty to his master called upon him to fulfil. On the evening of the day upon which this purpose had been formed, and in pursuance thereof, Giafar made a secret excursion through the city. He was habited like a merchant from a far country. A wide spreading turban of foreign material and construction, a flowing robe of the wool of Astracan, with trousers and sandals equally suited to the character which he had assumed, effectually completed his disguise, and few even of his nearest friends could, in his present strange apparel, have recognised the vizier. He was accompanied by a white attendant, and by Mesrour, in the dress of an ordinary black slave. They roamed on through the wide and magnificent streets of the city, keeping close by the gardens which lay along the Tigris. Passing first through the most spacious and well-regulated portions of the capital, and finding nothing to attract their attention, they crossed the bridge which connected the opposite quarters of Bagdad. Proceeding onward down a retired street, they stopped before a mansion well lighted, from which issued sounds of merriment and festivity, somewhat restrained, indeed, yet at intervals breaking forth in a degree louder than was consistent with concealment, if such were indeed the purpose of those within.

"Revellers!" said the prince, as, after pausing for a moment to listen, he moved onward in his walk. "I will look in upon them as I return to see that they are discreet in their mirth." They had proceeded but a few paces, when sounds of suppressed voices, and of footsteps advancing towards them, were heard. Time was scarcely allowed them to conceal themselves hastily behind a projecting wall, ere a party of four or five men hurried by them, conversing earnestly yet in whispers.

"Thou art sure then, Amrou, that he will be with us to-night?"

"He will not fail," was the reply. "Iahia Ben Abdallah is not one to sleep till all his purpose be accomplished."

"Were I not already thus deep in this matter," said a third—The rest was unheard, for by this time they had passed on. Giafar remained eagerly watching their steps, until he saw them enter the mansion which a moment before had attracted his attention, and then ejaculated in a suppressed but bitter tone, "Treason, by this hand—and from that base slave! but follow—we will enter their haunt—"

"Hold, my lord!" said Mesrour; "first suffer me to seek out a band of the city guards or to return to the palace and arm some of thy household. Thrust not thyself, I beseech thee, into needless peril."

"There must be no delay, Mesrour," exclaimed the prince, pressing hastily onward; "every moment is precious while rebels are plotting treason within these walls. Thou mightst give the alarm, too, and thus frustrate my designs."

"If Iahia be indeed present there, he will not fail to penetrate thy disguise. Nay, my lord, I must still remonstrate against this reckless hazarding of thy life—"

"Speak not of it, Mesrour—it is forfeited already by my negligence and error. I must enter this den of traitors, I must listen to their secret counsels, discover all their hidden plans, and learn upon what foreign aid they count, that they build their hopes thus high. I will, however, render my disguise more secure. Put off thy garments," he continued, addressing the slave, "and do thou take mine."

Giafar then clothed himself in the habit of the slave, and blackened his face and arms with a mixture which he ordinarily used for that purpose, saying, when he had completed his disguise, "I can now, methinks, defy his scrutiny." He then turned to the slave, who was by this time dressed in the garb which his master had thrown off. "Go forward," he said; "we will follow as thy slaves. Enter yon mansion boldly, call thyself a merchant from Moussul; say thou art lodged without the city, and returning late hast found the gates closed against thee, and knowest not where to past the night. Yet speak to no one who does not question thee. Stay—thou mayst seem to be drunken with wine. They will think thy tale less strange, and be themselves less guarded. They may not heed thee; if so, do naught which may draw attention towards thee, but conduct thyself in all things as thou seest others. Be wary, yet fearless. Now onward. Mesrour, follow thy master."

The slave listened attentively, and when Giafar motioned him to proceed, led the way with a grave and measured step, the prince and Mesrour following at a respectful interval, as befitted the characters they had assumed. When they reached the mansion, they found the portal standing open, but on entering, the inner gate proved to be fast locked. While Giafar was meditating upon the means to gain admission, they were again surprised by the sound of approaching footsteps, and had scarce time to retire within the recess between the inner and the outer gates, when a second party entered. This band was more numerous than the former, and most of them seemed to have but recently risen from a debauch, and were still under the influence of the wine cup. On their entrance, they brushed so near the person of the prince, that discovery seemed for the moment inevitable, and Giafar's hand was upon the hilt of his scimitar. He soon, however, withdrew it, for he saw that he was still unobserved by the new comers, who passed hastily on to the inner gate, which was unlocked by a key in the possession of one of their number.

"Follow them closely—enter with them," whispered Giafar; and, obedient to his master's command, the slave pressed forward, Mesrour and the prince keeping near his person. Mingling with the party which was entering, they found their way into a courtyard, agreeably ornamented with vases of flowers and fountains. This they crossed, and ascending a flight of steps, entered a door which opened into an illuminated chamber, the light from which, shining through the latticed windows, had first arrested the attention of the prince in passing.

A carpet was spread upon the floor, around which reclined or sat cross legged about a score of revellers, as they seemed. Wine in crystal pitchers, and in gold and silver goblets, sparkled on the board; sherbets likewise, and fruits, both fresh and dried, were seen in abundance. At the upper end of the table, if thus it might be called, sat one whom Giafar recognised as having held a post of considerable importance at court, but of which he had been deprived for some fault either real or supposed. His dress was rich and well arranged. Manhood with him seemed striving against age. The former predominated in the unquenched sparkling of his eye, and in the fresh hue which showed itself high up upon his cheek, where a luxuriant growth of beard permitted it to be seen; the latter was visible in his furrowed brow, and in his beard, which was of a silvery whiteness. From the attention which he seemed to be bestowing upon those around him when Giafar entered, and from the manner in which he received the new comers, the prince held him to be the master of the house. He gave them a warm welcome, yet hurriedly, and with small ceremony, and they seated themselves promiscuously at the board, the slave taking his place with the rest. The host then filled a goblet with wine, and placed it to his lips, all bowing to him as he drank, and wishing him health, a compliment which he returned by touching his right temple with the fingers of his right hand, inclining his head at the same time with much gravity to the company. After the rest had also drank, he exclaimed,

"Yes, friends, ye are welcome—welcome, by the beard of my grandfather! and the rather that ye bring not Iahia with you to disturb our merriment."

"We thought to find him here, my lord," replied one of the gravest of the party which had last entered. "We are here on business which nearly concerns himself, and his presence is most necessary to our council."

"True, true," rejoined Mohalleb—thus was the host called—"I spake not as altogether averse to his coming. He shall be welcome; but in time—in time. A cup of wine or two were not amiss, ere he comes to damp our festivity with his solemn visage."

"I will reprove thee. Friend Mohalleb," said a third, the suffused state of whose countenance contradicted the formal expression into which he had constrained his features, and suited as ill with the sentiments which he uttered—"in truth, I will reprove thee. Hast thou yet to learn that wine is an abominable thing? And therein is our law superior to the law either of Jew or Christian, and the book in which we have received it more excellent than the writings of all the prophets which have gone before, even as our Prophet, elect of God, is more excellent than they. Besides, we are here together to consult on matters of great import."

"I value not thy words," rejoined the host, "neither do I see how a draught of wine should mar prudent counsel. If we have serious and weighty duties to perform, good wine will render them the lighter to be borne, or make us rather the more willing to bear them." While he was speaking, he filled a goblet for himself, and another, which (glancing his eye at those around with a smile) he placed before his prudent counsellor, saying, "Shall accursed Giaours partake freely of Heaven's bounty, and the true Moslem alone abstain?"

"God forbid!" was the reply of the person thus addressed, as with undisturbed solemnity he forthwith raised to his lips and drained the cup, then wiping his beard with great gravity, after a deep and long-drawn respiration, he proceeded—"God forbid! I say not totally abstain, although it were well that with the common sort, the herd of men, such should be thought our doctrine. I would not have thee think me rigid in this thing; nay, thou shalt not misconceive me, good Mohalleb, I will fill yet another cup with thee, rather than thou shouldst hold me over rigorous as touching the wine. Come—To the noble Iahia Ben Abdallah, our rightful calif."

None refused the pledge. It was drunk deeply but in silence, as though reason had for a moment hovered round the board, and whispered to some how desperate, to all how hazardous was the cause in which they had embarked.

The silence was broken by one who had not yet spoken.

"How shall we profit by this expected change? What shall we gain should we succeed in our purpose of dethroning the present monarch, and placing in his seat the noble Iahia?"

"A calif of the stem of Ali, and a rightful descendant of our holy Prophet," answered one, who with a few others sat apart, and had steadily refused to join in the festivity which reigned around the table.

"Yet there are many who think the house of Abbas equally worthy," was the reply; "and, in truth, by the decision of the sword, has Allah adjudged to that race the supremacy. But I speak of gain—will our lives or our possessions be safer?"

"Ay," interrupted the host, upon whose brain the wine began to do its office, and whose speech was becoming broken and interrupted—"ay," he exclaimed, "or our harems more secure, or wine freer to us than now?"

"Thinkest thou upon naught else, Mohalleb, and with a beard as white as thine? Are there not such things as honour and religion?"

"True," replied Mohalleb, laying one hand upon his bosom, and with the other stroking his beard, and raising his eyes to Heaven at the same time with drunken gravity, "true—religion—the sacred race of Ali—a cup of wine—let it be full," he continued, warmly, "a full cup to the true descendants of the Prophet, and may Allah confound the house of Abbas. and all its adherents."

During this while Giafar had been anxiously watching the demeanour of the pretended merchant, upon whose address and gravity depended, in a great measure, the successful completion of his design. He was aware that the slave knew of wine only by the name, and from the frequency and earnestness with which he drank, he feared lest he might proceed to some extravagance which should betray them. More than once, under the pretext of assisting his supposed master, he took the cup from his hands and placed it upon the table, plucking him at the same time by the robe, or intimating, by some secret gesture, that he should moderate his draughts. The slave, however, was unable, or perhaps unwilling, to comprehend these mute prohibitions. He was delighted with the wine, and, despite his fears of his master's displeasure, drank often and freely, until his brain reeled, and, forgetful of his real character and situation, he enacted the part which had been assigned him with a fidelity and truth which shut out all suspicion of its being a counterfeit. When the prince refused to fill his cup, or filled it sparingly, he held it forth to Mesrour without so much as speaking, but with an air which of itself seemed to say, "Fill full, slave," a command which, in conformity with his assumed character, Mesrour could not avoid executing.

But with the exception of some such exuberance of manner, the slave had conducted himself with considerable caution and dexterity. He had strictly followed the counsel given him by his master before they entered. He had spoken to no one; he had imitated, as well as he was able, the actions of those around him, and thus far without having drawn upon him the attention of any one present. The last pledge, however, given by the host, was of a character so disloyal and heretical, as to bewilder for a moment the already disturbed faculties of the slave. He hesitated to drink, and did not recover himself so as to place the goblet to his lips, until those around had finished their wine. This delay quickly attracted the attention of Mohalleb, who, bending his eyes upon the slave with all the steadiness which they were able to assume, awaited the conclusion of his draught. This the slave prolonged to the utmost, holding the cup raised high to his face, concealing all its features, excepting only the eyes, which, peering from between the goblet and his overhanging turban, returned with equal gravity the gaze of the host. Finding that delay was of no avail, and that Mohalleb was not to be diverted from his scrutiny, he slowly took the cup from his lips, and disclosed the remainder of his countenance.

When Mohalleb saw a face entirely unknown to him discovered by this action, he exclaimed, in some wonder,

"Friend, how camest thou here? Who art thou?"

"I am an honest man, my lord, and a good Mussulman," said the slave.

" 'Tis well spoken," was the reply, "yet in some degree indefinite. There be such things as name, country, and calling. Answer, I pray thee, as to these matters."

"My name is Ganem, or 'The Rich.' I am a merchant, and from Moussul."

"And by what chance, Ganem, didst thou find thy way hither?"

"I will tell thee, my lord," answered the slave, giving way to his intoxication, and attempting neither to resist nor conceal the inroad which wine was making upon his faculties—"I will tell thee. I lodge without the city, my lord, and this day visiting a merchant with whom I have dealings, I dined with him. We drank wine together, as you may see, in some quantity, too—we sat so long at table that night came on suddenly—very suddenly. I found the gates closed—lost my way—passed your dwelling—saw it lighted—entered, as you must be aware—and here I am."

"We have overlooked thee somewhat long. Friend Ganem, and thou art therefore the more entitled to our present—particular attention. Those stout blacks at thy shoulder—are they followers of thine?"

"They are" was the consequential reply. "Slaves—mute slaves—thou needst not question them. Wonder not, my lord," he continued, with more caution, and steadying to the utmost of his power his swimming brain, "do not wonder, I say, that a simple merchant should be thus attended.* At home I rank with the first of my calling; and I swear to you, my lord, by the prophet Elias, that there are as many slaves, mutes and eunuchs, white and black, in my abode, as there are in the palace of your vizier."

[*Mutes at this time were rarely to be met with, except in the palaces of princes.]

"If thou speakest truth," answered Mohalleb, "thou mayst aid us much in this enterprise, of which thou hast heard us somewhat too freely discourse."

"Enterprise!" exclaimed the slave, with a vacant stare; then shaking his head, he added, "I know not of what you speak. But this I know, that you are a glorious old man, and your wine is the best I ever drank."

"The best!" rejoined Mohalleb. "Why, the wine is well enough—but for a man of thy wealth and rank—"

"Trifles—trifles," interrupted the slave, now perfectly at his ease, "not worthy to be mentioned. I certify it is the best. I swear it by the prophet Elias—the best I ever tasted; and good reason, too," he muttered to himself. "Your climate of Bagdad here gives it a flavour ours hath not. As to the enterprise you spoke of—be it what it may, I will join you, were it but to prove how much I prize and honour your unequalled hospitality."

Mohalleb bowed low, and replied,

"I will then at large recount it to you, bearing well in mind that you are bound to us."

"Bound!" exclaimed the slave, with an assumption of infinite dignity, "I am bound to no man. I would join with you in this matter, but it must be under no constraint. God keep you, my worthy friends. I will talk with you of this at another time." So saying, as if to satisfy himself that there was no hinderance to his departure, rather than from any real desire to leave the company where he had been so well received, he arose from the table, and with an air of importance beckoning his slaves to follow, proceeded with irregular steps towards the door of the apartment. Perceiving, however, that some present were about to prevent his exit, he returned in time to the board, so that his change of purpose seemed entirely voluntary. "Thou hast mistaken me, my worthy host—I am not of that sort—I will be bound to no man—always excepting my most noble master—"

"Thy master!" exclaimed many voices. "Thou art a cheat—an impostor. But now thou calledst thyself a rich merchant from Moussul."

"And a merchant I am," was the reply.

"And hast a master?"

"In some sort I have, friends; yes, in truth, an excellent master"—here he raised his face towards heaven with a ludicrous expression of devotion, his eyes twinkling as he spoke with wine and cunning—"a noble master, Allah above, who is the master of us all."

"Allah kerim! God is merciful!" exclaimed many, and a dull murmur was heard around the board. Silence then followed, as though something discordant and out of tune had jarred upon the feelings of all present.

This, however, the slave did not heed, but flourishing a well-filled goblet, the contents of which he distributed in good measure upon the garments of those nearest him, and upon his own, he exclaimed,

"A generous and excellent master. A cup of wine, friends, to his welfare and prosperity!"

At this proposal, so glaringly impious as it seemed, a tumult was raised on every side.

"Away with the wretch! beat the knave into the street!" were heard resounding from all parts of the table.

Some were about to lay hands on the pretended merchant to thrust him forth from the apartment, and, for a moment, Giafar had hopes that the craft or carelessness of the slave, for he knew not which to think it, would procure for him a safe retreat. But the voice of Mohalleb, who seemed well pleased with the convivial qualities of his guest, was heard crying loudly,

"Touch him not. It was an ill-conceived and hastily uttered jest. I would see more of him."

Still, many were clamorous for his expulsion, many for confining him in a remote apartment until morning. At this moment, while the tumult was at its height, a heavy step was heard slowly and deliberately ascending the steps without. All were in an instant hushed, and Iahia Ben Abdallah entered the apartment.

A frown of impatient anger was upon his furrowed brow, and a smile of scorn curled his lip as he advanced. He cast a glance at their irregular and disordered mirth, and then exclaimed bitterly, yet in a suppressed voice,

"Fools! meet instruments ye are for a work like mine! Is the prize already ours, that ye feast thus and shout aloud? Think ye if the calif is absent that his minion sleeps?"

Giafar's heart beat violently within his bosom as he heard these words, sending the hot blood up to his cheek and brow so forcibly, that its crimson was visible even through his dark disguise. Other signs of emotion, also, he could not for the moment control. His lips were compressed, his eyes flashed forth from beneath brows that for an instant frowned, and then his countenance became cold, calm, and impassive. His hand, which had sought hurriedly the hilt of his scimitar, was as quickly withdrawn, and subduing the air of energy and dignity that was rising in his frame, he composed himself into the humble and attentive attitude which befitted his disguise.

"And why," proceeded Iahia, "when we should lurk like owls in darkness, would ye make broad day even of night?" As he said this he passed around the apartment, extinguishing one by one the lamps which hung suspended from the ceilings lighting, ere he came to the last, a small taper, which he placed upon the carpet, about which the guests were seated.

"Thou art thyself an owl," exclaimed Mohalleb. "But let a draught of wine wash this humour from thy brain."

Iahia waved aside the proffered goblet, with an exclamation which denoted his aversion to the unhallowed draught, and replied,

"Why wilt thou, Mohalleb, thus peril our safety? We are upon the eve of success. The calif absent—the flower of the army with him—our succours from Bassora hourly expected—yet one rash act or word, nay, the very glare of yon lamps which I have just extinguished, should it meet suspicious eyes, would lead to our destruction."

"Thy wisdom oversteps itself," was the reply. "But a moment since we were a company of friends, gayly met together, and might defy the scrutiny of prince or officer; now, shrouded in darkness, we look indeed like what we are. Light up, light up, and then to council if thou wilt."

"That thou mayst see the better to fill thy goblet?"

"Speak not thus scornfully, Iahia. This night's revel has been worth much to us—more than a score wasted in dry deliberation. It has gained us a worthy accession to our party. Look you—him yonder with the slaves. Nay, do not frown. If you like him not, he is still here," and he approached his hand to his scimitar with a significant gesture.

"Thou canst not have done this!" exclaimed Iahia, as, seizing the lamp, he passed round the table to where the supposed merchant was seated, and scanned his features with hurried, yet accurate minuteness. He then proceeded to subject the pretended slave to the same scrutiny, saying as he did so, "This passes ordinary folly. I tell thee, Mohalleb, the Vizier Giafar is abroad to-night." At this moment the lamp which he held threw its faint light upon the prince's form and features.

Iahia turned pale, stepped backward a pace or two, and then, exclaiming, "By Allah! he is here," drew his scimitar.

That of the prince gleamed in air as quickly as though lightning had left the scabbard at his side. Mesrour also drew his blade, and the slave, shaking off as he best could the fumes of the wine which he had drunk, bared his weapon and ranged himself at their side. But they were fearfully outnumbered.

A score of scimitars flashed from their sheaths, and a crowd of hostile features and strong frames arrayed themselves before them, and on either side.

" 'Tis well!" exclaimed Iahia, fiercely, as he signed his followers to stay their hands, and turned the point of his own weapon towards the earth; "Giafar al Barmeki, thou art mine!"

"Say rather thou art mine, false slave!" rejoined the prince, with an air of immeasurable dignity, and with a confidence of tone and manner, which gave him a momentary ascendency over his foes. Then turning to those who were confronting him, he exclaimed, "In the name of the Calif Haroun al Raschid, I here offer a free pardon to all who will throw down their arms, save only to the traitor, Iahia Ben Abdallah, and the five chiefs and authors of this conspiracy. How, Moslems! do ye hesitate?" he continued, as he noticed the doubt and irresolution which was visible in the faces of all round.

" 'Tis but in wonder at thy strange presumption," replied Iahia, scornfully. "Have you no answer, friends, to this lordly proffer?" It was heard in a tumultuous acclamation, "Long live Iahia Ben Abdallah, our noble and rightful calif!"

"Thou hearest, prince," continued Iahia; "nor is this all: at the war cry of my house a thousand scimitars would start up to execute my bidding. Thou canst not now escape me. Yet listen to my words. I hate thee, Giafar—first, for thy fidelity to a tyrant whom I abhor—next, that I have felt thy mercy—thou hast seen me grovelling at thy feet." An expression of the bitterest enmity enwrapped his features as he thus spoke, and more than once it seemed as if, impelled by the violence of his passions, he would again precipitate himself upon the prince in combat. He controlled himself, however, and continued, "Yet, deeply as I hate thee, with tenfold bitterness do I loathe the relentless master whom thou servest. More would I give to hurl him from his throne, than to sate my vengeance with a thousand lives like thine. Aid me to do this, as with ease thou mayst, and thou shall live—nay, more, receive my gratitude and thanks."

"Thy gratitude! thy thanks!—have I not known them? and thinkest thou that to gain these, or to lengthen out by a few days a shameless life, I would join thee in thine unhallowed purpose to dethrone the calif?"

"I look not for this—I know thee better, Giafar," was the reply. "Yet something thou canst do—something which thou shouldst deem an easy purchase of thy life."

"Speak on, I will listen, though never came aught but baseness from thy vile lips; yet quickly, a traitor's breath is poison to me."

"To-morrow at dawn of day I shall unfurl my standard in the city. 'Tis something premature, three days would bring us valuable succours, but it may not be helped. Even thy death would not now conceal our purpose—rather would it be the signal for a vigilant search throughout Bagdad, which we should be ill able to elude. Deliver, then, this night into my hands the keys of that quarter of the palace which contains thy master's treasure, his jewels, the sacred relics of the Prophet, all indeed which may influence the minds of Mussulmen in our behalf. Do this, and thou art safe. Refuse, and thou hast seen thy last sun."

"Were I willing thus to aid thee, it would avail nothing," replied the prince, affecting a hesitation which he did not feel. "Those keys are in the keeping of my father."

"Send for them, then. A single line written with importunity and as in haste, with some sure token, would place them in thy hands."

"It would—it would." He placed his hand upon his brow, and stood for a moment as though in deep meditation, and then added, "Thou dost promise for this, to spare the lives of my attendants and mine own?"

"I promise it," said Iahia.

"Wilt thou swear it?"

"I swear it," was the treacherous reply.

"Be it so, then—give me writing materials. I would yet keep my life, were it but to be revenged on thee."

A piece of parchment was then given him, with an ink horn, and a reed cut for the purpose, and Giafar wrote as follows: "From Giafar Ben Iahia ben Khaled to his beloved father. Thy son hath instant need of the keys which unlock the treasure chamber of the calif. They are, as thou well knowest, in the fourth compartment of the secret cabinet. I have sudden and especial use for them. Neither mistake nor fail. Place them in the hands of the bearer, who will deliver to thee my signet in token that thou mayst confide in him. Thou knowest the ring. Fail not—life hangs upon the issue."

He then gave the letter to Iahia, who examined it with care to see if there were any secret writing thereon. Satisfied of this, he returned it to the prince, who sealed it with his signet, then taking unobserved the ruby of the calif from his finger, he placed it in the hands of the slave whom Iahia had chosen for his courage and fidelity to be the bearer of the message, saying, "Show this to my father, and thy mission will not fail."

"Should it, thy life is forfeit," said Iahia. " 'Tis now scarce the middle watch of the night. When the next hour shall have passed, if this errand be not accomplished, then thou diest. And be thou faithful and wary," he continued to the slave, "so shalt thou meet with thy reward." Having thus spoken, he sped the messenger upon his errand.

————

CHAPTER XIII.

'Tis answered—"Well ye speed, my gallant crew! Why did I doubt their quickness of career!"

Byron.

In the mean while, Iahia al Barmeki was awaiting at his palace the return of Giafar from his nocturnal and, as it chanced this night, his perilous wanderings. The stay of the prince was more prolonged than ordinary, and fears for his welfare, vague and inexplicable, yet constantly recurring, found their way per force into the old man's bosom. His anxiety had reached its height, and he was about to send forth some of his household to bring him news of his son, when a knocking was heard at the door of the apartment where he was sitting. At Iahia's bidding one of his slaves entered, and informed him that "a messenger waited without who desired to speak to my lord in person."

"Send him quickly hither," exclaimed Iahia, in an unsteady voice. The slave retired, and returning presently, ushered in the bearer of the prince's letter.

It required all the old man's firmness to avoid showing unusual and unmeet agitation, as, having received it from the hands of the messenger, he broke the seal of the missive. The hour so untimely—the slave unknown to him—there was something mysterious, too, in his silent yet bold bearing. He glanced at the superscription; it was in the handwriting of his son, and the impress upon the seal was that of his signet. He opened the letter and perused it in silence. As he read, the face of the old man became whiter even than age had made it. "In the name of Allah! what means this?" he exclaimed. "The keys of the calif's treasure chamber—and at this hour! 'They are, as thou well knowest,' " he continued, reading, " 'in the fourth compartment of the secret cabinet.' 'Tis there I keep the key of mine own private armory." His eye here rested upon the paper with agaze the keenest and most intense, as though he would gather some hidden, secret meaning from the lines thereon inscribed. " 'Tis of this, then, that he has sudden need—I cannot mistake. 'Place them in the hands of the bearer, who will deliver to thee my signet in token that thou mayst confide in him.' Where is this token?" he continued, turning to the messenger.

The slave produced the ring which Giafar had given him; it was not the signet of the prince. Iahia knew it well, and the sight seemed to have banished all fear as well as doubt from his mind. " 'Tis well!" he exclaimed, in a tone of perfect composure. "They shall be sent him; yet where left you the prince?"

"Will my lord pardon his slave? I should but disobey thy son's commands to answer. It was his wish to keep his purpose secret."

"Who were with him?"

"Friends, my lord. I can say no more than this."

"Art thou sure that friends were with him?" said Iahia, bending his eyes steadily upon the slave.

"They seemed such, my lord," was the unmoved reply.

Questioning was useless. Sensible of this, Iahia clapped his hands thrice violently together, and obedient to the signal, four slaves hastened into his presence. "Zeyn," he said, addressing one of their number, "see that my household are under arms and in waiting;" to another, "See thou that the guard of the calif's palace be collected, and hold them in readiness for my commands. Declare now," exclaimed Iahia, turning sternly to the slave before him, "declare where thou last sawest the vizier, or thou diest quickly."

"My lips are sealed even by the prince's own command," was the resolute reply.

"Thou liest, wretch!" thundered forth the old man, and then by a sign he directed the slaves to seize him. They obeyed, and having bound his arms with a silken cord which they wore at the girdle, they passed another about his neck, each grasping one extremity thereof, and then like statues awaited the further bidding of their master. "Answer now," said Iahia—"where did you leave the prince?"

The slave answered not.

"Speak! there is a moment left thee."

The slave kept a firm silence.

Though scarce a perceptible motion escaped the old man, yet the silent sentence went forth, and in a moment the features of the victim were suffused with red, now empurpled, now darkly livid. At this instant, a convulsive motion of the lips, caused apparently by a faint attempt at speech, caught the attention of Iahia, and in hope, he motioned the executioners to intermit their dreadful office.

A few moments were afforded the slave to regain his power of utterance, and looking alternately at the grim forms which stood on either side, he faintly and slowly spoke. "Stay their hands, my lord, until thou hast heard me. The prince, thy son, is now at the mercy of his deadliest foe. Yet thou mayst save him, if thou wilt. Send but the keys of the treasure chamber by my hands to those who hold him in their power, and he is safe."

"Life and liberty shall be thine, if thou wilt lead me to him," said Iahia.

"Mine errand must be accomplished, or he dies."

"Wealth to crown all thy wishes," uttered the trembling father.

A smile was the sole reply.

"Prophet of God, look down upon him!" exclaimed the old man, summoning all his firmness; but ere he had given the fatal signal, the slave again spoke.

"Knowest thou the hour, my lord?"

"The first watch of the morning is just at hand."

A wild gleam of triumph and ferocity lighted up the features of the slave, as he exclaimed, "So soon! Old man, thine aid will come too late!"

"Away with him!" exclaimed Iahia, and in a moment the executioners had seized upon their victim, and the unhappy wretch, struggling and blackening in the throes of death, was hurried from the apartment.

"Allah in mercy preserve him! Yet it cannot be. I am a child to be thus ruffled by the malice of a slave. Hear me," continued Iahia, turning to his attendants, who had by this time returned to receive his further commands, and as he spoke, firmness and self-possession usurped in his bosom the place of trembling agitation. "Hear me—the prince, my son, is in the power of foes, and I know not where. Divide the slaves of my house and the palace guard into bands of five men, and disperse them widely throughout Bagdad. Search first the dwelling of Iahia Ben Abdallah, and the quarter of the city beyond the bridge. Speak not as ye traverse the streets, but let those who first find the vizier light their torches, and shout, 'Allah for the house of Abbas!' then enter to his aid. When that cry is heard, let all hasten thitherward; the blaze of the torches will guide you. But utter not a sound, nor fire a torch until ye shall have gained the spot where he is in person, then let their flame reach Heaven, and cry, 'Allah for the house of Abbas!'—cry loudly, as though the last trump were sounding—'Allah for the house of Abbas!' " here the old man raised his voice unconsciously into a loud and echoing shout. "Ye have heard. Away! away! Zeyn," he added, as the last of their number was hurrying from his presence, "hold! I will go with thee and thy band—yet no—these old limbs—speed! speed!" and following hastily, Iahia left the palace.

We must now return to the abode of Mohalleb. The hour had wellnigh passed; the slave had not yet returned who bore the letter of the prince to his father, and Giafar's situation was becoming every moment more perilous. Still, hope was warm within his bosom. It was mingled, however, with a full sense of his danger. He was surrounded by fierce foes, imprisoned in a retired dwelling, far from all aid, or, at least, unable to warn his friends of his peril. His courage, however, did not desert him; of all present, he alone, the threatened victim, seemed to retain his confidence and composure. Upon the faces of the conspirators sat signs of distrust and fear. Now and then recourse was had to the wine cup, and occasionally a jest or laugh was attempted, but in vain; they seemed in discordance with the chill stillness that reigned, which, failing to dispel, they rendered the more gloomy and foreboding.

"Our message has failed," said Iahia, at last, breaking the silence. "Prince, thou hast deceived us. Thine hour is come!"

"Patience yet for a while, Iahia," replied the prince, without emotion. "The errand, as I think, will not fail."

"The time must be short, or even its success will not avail to save thee," was the answer.

Silence and expectation breathless and intense now followed. Iahia sat stern and motionless. Giafar, apparently calm, but with the most anxious interest, awaited each moment what the next might produce.

At last his fierce enemy arose, and turning, addressed his followers: "Our purpose has miscarried. Amrou, take with thee five men, and proceed carefully through the streets of the city towards the palace of the Barmecides. See if aught is stirring in that quarter, and bring us news of our messenger if thou canst. Avoid the guard—be wary and speedy. And do ye, Selim and Youssouf, go forth and arouse our friends. Let them arm as for the field. Tell them to awake if they would see the dawn." Then with a fiendish frown, and an expression of despairing malice, he exclaimed—"But these at least are our victims," and in an instant his blade clashed against that of the prince.

Blows were exchanged with the rapidity of lightning, and before the followers of Iahia could mingle in the combat, the scimitar of Giafar beating down and riving in pieces the blade of his antagonist, had descended with fearful violence upon his turban, cleaving it in twain, and inflicting a deep and stunning wound upon his bare brow. Ere he could repeat the blow, numbers interposed to the rescue of their chief, and Giafar and his followers beheld themselves hemmed in by a dense circle of fierce and skilful foes. Yet bravely was the contest maintained. Scarce a moment had passed ere Mesrour had cut down two who pressed upon him closest, and the slave, though bleeding from various wounds, held his opponents manfully at bay.

The prince's uncommon strength, and his unequalled dexterity in the use of his weapon, had kept him as yet unharmed, notwithstanding he was the chief object of attack. All shrank back from the deadly sweep of his scimitar, as though fate descended upon its edge, and for a time it seemed as if with the might of his single arm he could extricate himself from the dangers which were gathered around him. But they crowded in fast and thick, and though a flood of gore, though many fallen, both wounded and dead, bore terrible evidence to the work which his hand had wrought, his enemies were still unwavering. If, at times, they retired from his arm, it was only to return to the attack with violence increased and numbers undiminished.

Mesrour had now fallen, struck down by the hand of Mohalleb, and the slave, though he drew closer to his master, bestriding the fallen eunuch, and maintaining an unbroken front to their antagonists, was evidently scarce able to wield his scimitar. Giafar's only hope was succour, his sole thought but to prolong the contest. He now put forth his strength more sparingly, content to repel the assaults of his foes, without striving to deal back the blows which were aimed at him from every side. At times, it is true, when he found the traitor Iahia within his reach, he could not refrain, he could not withhold his arm from assailing him, but in vain; the stroke fell upon the body of some faithful follower, who averted and received the death intended for his master. But his enemies now surround him, save that he has placed his back against the wainscoting of the apartment, for the slave has just fallen at his feet. He is deeply wounded—his strength fails—he still resists, but 'tis vain! the combat is hopeless. Hark—a sound—'twas the sighing of the wind, or the distant watch of the city—no—'tis the tramp of feet, remote, yet fast approaching. His enemies heed it not, they are too eager for their prey.

"Thou art mine!" shouted the fierce Iahia.

"Son of the tomb, thou liest!" responded Giafar, as fiercely and triumphantly, for the sound of footsteps was now distinctly heard advancing. Despair's cold hand is withdrawn. Hope nerves him. He waves his arm with a strength somewhat like his own. The light gleaming steel flashes around the hostile circle that environs him—that circle is broken—it is swept down—no, two have fallen—one, a headless trunk—the other cloven to the waist by that resistless blow; the rest have borne back from its might. The trampling is nearer—it is here—it is just without. The door opens. "Ye have come in time!" shouted the prince, in thrilling and widely spreading accents. They enter. Allah in heaven! 'tis Amrou with his men!

But they enter confusedly, and in disarray, and there is blood upon the garments of the foremost. The shout of derisive triumph which comes from his foes is answered and drowned by an echoing cry without—"Allah for the house of Abbas!" Torches throw their blaze through the latticed windows—that cry is again sounded, and following close upon Amrou and his retreating band, four of the trustiest of his household enter impetuously, and bearing back all resistance, range themselves at the prince's side.

" 'Tis bravely done, and in time," he exclaimed, in tones of exulting approbation. "I was sure—" and the combat was furiously restored. Still they are too few. The foe again closes upon them. That little band receives them with unblenching firmness; their scimitars are drenched with the blood of their enemies, and their own is dripping from those hostile blades. They stand like a rock—but as amid a tempest of ceaseless and fiercely coming waves. The inequality in numbers, however, now fast diminishes, for each moment the shouting of those without is heard anew, the torches burn higher and brighter, and fresh slaves, singly and in bands, rush in to the rescue of their master. The rebels fight with the resolution of despair, but they are unable to withstand the daring and indignant courage of their opponents, and in their turn are beaten backward.

"Iahia," said Mohalleb, who had this night shown himself an approved soldier, scarce intermitting, as he spoke, the deadly work in which he was engaged, "our men give way. Withdraw thyself from the fight. The hour is come. Thou must sleep this night in a monarch's palace or in thy tomb. Withdraw, and array our friends in the streets. Thou wilt do well likewise to clothe thyself in armour," he continued, more careful of the safety of his chief than of his own. "Away! when all is in readiness raise the war cry of thy house—at that signal I will join thee without."

"Canst thou hold thyself here yet for a while?"

"Fear me not. I will not move from the spot which my feet now cover, save to go forward, until thou shalt give the word."

"Be it so," was the reply; and Iahia, extricating himself from the fray, disappeared by an inner door from the chamber. Mohalleb could not, however, make good his boast. Scarce had Iahia left the apartment, when the arm of Giafar clove him to the earth. Seeing him fall, his followers, after a short and wavering resistance, fled on all sides; some by the numerous doors which opened into various portions of the building, others leaping from the low windows into the court, whence they found their way into the street.

"Follow the rebels," exclaimed the prince; "yet not too far," and as his men vanished in the pursuit, he sank down upon the divan, breathing heavily and exhausted; overcome in part with fatigue, and in part by the violence of his emotions.

"In the name of Allah, what means this tumult?" exclaimed his father, who at that moment burst into the apartment, and rushed forward to the prince. "Art thou alive, my son?"

"Alive and unhurt, my father," answered Giafar, raising his head, but again burying it in the old man's bosom, as he drooped thereon, embracing him, "though hard pressed by the slaves. Thou didst not fail," he continued, again lifting up his face and smiling, though with an expression of deep emotion—"I should have known it—I was a fool to fear."

"But thou art faint and wounded—this blood—"

"It is not mine," replied the prince. "A slight hurt," he added, as he wiped away the red blood, yet still felt it oozing forth from a deep wound in his neck, " 'tis nothing. Mesrour has fared worse; yonder he lies, sore wounded, yet alive. Let him be seen to without delay. A cup of sherbet. I am wearied with keeping the knaves at bay," and again he sank back upon the divan, half supporting himself against the bosom of his father. It was brought him. He drained it at a draught, and exclaimed to the attendant into whose hands he placed the empty goblet, "Speed thou to the palace and lead down the soldiery."

"They are here already, my lord."

"Bring hither, then, my horse. Quickly! away!"

"But thou hast not told me," exclaimed his father, "what means this peril. Whence comes it?"

"Treason is on foot, and this night shakes its standard over the city. Iahia Ben Abdallah and his followers are in arms. But 'tis no time for words. Within the hour they will be battling with us like fiends in his behalf. Question me not, my father, but descend thou into the street, and keep our men back from the pursuit. Let them move slowly onward. We know not yet the number of our foes. Nay, do not heed me. In a moment I shall be with you."

Reposing for an instant after their departure, Giafar quaffed again a goblet of sherbet, and having hastily stanched the blood which still flowed from his wound, he proceeded into the street. When there, he found the guard of the palace mounted and drawn up in order, and a portion of the calif's household and his own on foot. Placing himself at the head of the latter, and commanding the horsemen to follow in close array, he hastened onward. The noise of the strife was heard in the distant streets, and seemed approaching. Pressing forward with as much rapidity as was consistent with the regularity of their march, they soon met with parties of their own men retreating; farther on, some were still engaged, as it seemed, in a most unequal contest, and hurrying to their aid, they found themselves in front of a numerous and well-ordered band of foes.

The encounter was fierce and desperate. Many fell on both sides, swept down by the edge of scimitar, wounded with steel-beaded jerrid, or pierced through with long lances. Yet their places were as fast supplied, and the fray continued unabated. The number of the rebels was every moment increasing.

Iahia appeared not among the combatants, but was actively engaged in summoning his followers. As they assembled, he arrayed them in small bands, and placing them under the command of some trusty officer, despatched them into the fight. Neither side gave way. A surprising courage and resolution seemed to animate both parties, and for a long time the issue appeared uncertain. Giafar, though he mingled occasionally in the battle, watched its tide with the eye of a chief, and at the moment when it raged the fiercest, ordered a body of horsemen to fetch a circuit around an adjacent street, and assail their enemies unexpectedly from behind. This first caused them to waver. The prince perceived their confusion; he heard the shout of the horsemen as they made the onset, and at the same moment leading on his followers, they attacked their opponents with irresistible fury. The rebels were shaken; they rallied; they again gave way, and the tumult in their rear increasing their fears and disorder, they were borne backward, yielding at first reluctantly, step by step, until at last they were driven rapidly down the streets of the city.

"My horse!" exclaimed the prince, as he saw a slave approaching with his favourite steed—"my horse! these dogs are swift of foot." Then mounting, he ordered the footmen to divide their ranks, thus opening a passage, through which, heading the guard of the palace, he assailed at full speed the retreating enemy.

Naught can describe the tumult which ensued. The darkness and the gleaming of torches, the trampling of horse, the clash of scimitars as they rang against each other, the groans of those who fell wounded and trodden down in the press, the cries of each party as they invoked the aid of Allah—a scene like this memory alone can recall, and the imagination picture. None asked for mercy, none granted it. Passions darker than the night, and wilder than its strife, were careering over the battle; citizens were foes, and brothers encountering fiends. Mingled together in a confused tide, friends and foemen, hoarsely shouting, grappling in deadly strife, falling and pressing onward, pursuers and pursued, dyed all in blood, swept down the streets towards the gates of the city.

Here the rebels held themselves for a while, and the battle was waged fiercely anew. In front of his men, mounted on a steed of perfect blackness, and arrayed in a slave's disguise, the prince carried havoc wherever he turned his blade. He seemed an avenging spirit, or some fiend of darkness, scattering death abroad with a familiar hand; none dared encounter him, but as he spurred forward, all gave way before him. Many a torch was held aloft by his followers, that they might discover the fortune or the bearing of their leader. At times the glare would reveal him bounding amid the foe, and bearing back the throng as he waved his scimitar streaming with red blood, in the unequal light thus thrown upon him—at times, bending forward upon his saddle, his foot, incased in its sandal, resting far backward upon the broad stirrup, while his steed seemed to leap into the air, and stooping his turbaned head even below the mane of the charger which so nobly bore him, as he dealt a blow against a foeman. Rarely did it fail of a victim; and each time that an enemy fell beneath his arm, Giafar's voice was heard exclaiming, "Allah ackbar! God is victorious!" Often was that thrilling cry echoed on the night air, and as often his followers knew that a rebel had bit the dust. The contest at the gates was sharp, yet soon decided. A furious charge upon the foe, bravely repelled, an onset renewed, a moment of bloody strife, then a wavering, a yielding, and the current poured forth from the city, and spread itself over the plain. Here the rebels made a last and desperate stand.

In the tumultuous conflict within the city, Iahia and the prince had not encountered, though each sought eagerly to match himself with the other, jealous lest the fortune of the fight should rob him of that vengeance which each thought peculiarly his due. They now met. Giafar found his enemy near the bank of the river upon the right, where, by every act of valour, he was stimulating his followers to a last strenuous effort to retrieve the day. They assaulted each other with singular ferocity, and the combatants on either side that were near them paused to witness the contest. Both parties seemed content that the issue should depend upon the personal valour of their chiefs—the followers of Giafar, from a confidence in the prince's prowess, and their enemies, from a hope that their desperate fortune might even yet be repaired by the courage and skill of their leader.

There was nothing, in truth, in the condition or conduct of either, from which any presage might be drawn as to the result of their strife. They were equally matched. Both were practised warriors, both were animated by the most deadly hostility, and ventured their lives as though they held them but for the brief service of that eventful night. Both, too, had been wounded; and if the prince was superior in dexterity and strength, these advantages were well counterbalanced by the complete armour in which his adversary was clothed. After a brief struggle, in which each engaged with more impetuosity and daring than suited with prudence, both, as if by mutual consent, paused for a moment and rested upon their weapons, as though summoning all their energy and coolness ere they resumed the combat. The river rolled near them, into which, as the torches flickered in the wind, and the faint starlight alone was visible, their eager efforts had more than once wellnigh precipitated them, and they drew off from its margin farther up upon the plain.

"Thou wilt not now escape me," was Giafar's exclamation, as they again addressed themselves to the encounter. "Thine armed slaves cannot now protect thee."

"I need them not," was the angry reply; and thus saying, Iahia fiercely assailed the prince. Spurring their horses forward against each other, they closed in a more guarded yet deadly strife. Their strokes fell like rain, as fast and weighty as though giant hands had wielded the weapons which inflicted them. Their scimitars clashed together with a force which would have riven them in pieces, except for the surpassing excellence of their temper, and have drunk deeply and repeatedly of blood, save for the unequalled dexterity with which they were parried. They passed and repassed each other at full speed, showering blows in their career, wheeling and returning with the rapidity of lightning, each warding off or eluding the attacks of his adversary with great skill, yet at times so narrowly as to cause their respective followers to tremble for the safety of their chiefs. After a short time, the light soil beneath their horses' feet became disturbed to and fro by their trampling, and rising into the air enveloped them in a cloud of dust, entirely concealing them from the eyes of the beholders. Still the sword strokes rang sharply, and the voices of the combatants were heard in various exclamations of hatred, defiance, and exultation. The suspense of all around had risen to its height, when presently a sound was heard like the swift shock of steeds together, followed by a fall which shook the earth beneath their feet, and at the same time Giafar's voice, exclaiming, "Allah ackbar! God is victorious!" was heard in clear and triumphant accents from within that veil of sand. The wind then wafting aside the dust, disclosed the person of the prince standing over his prostrate enemy.[10] The followers of Iahia, uttering a shout of grief and revenge, rushed forward to rescue the body, or haply the life of their chief, but they were met by eager and exulting opponents, and after a short struggle driven far across the plain.

Iahia lay prone upon the earth. Horse and rider had been borne down in the encounter. He endeavoured feebly to raise his head from the dust, bleeding, and gasping wildly for breath. He in part succeeded, and had strength left to utter, in an altered tone, "Thou hast conquered—thy hand—but turn my face—" and he pointed towards Mecca. Giafar complied with his request, and paused to watch him for a moment as he attempted to mutter his devotions. 'Twas vain. The blood, which a moment before streamed freely from a ghastly wound upon his throat, was staid as he sat erect, and flowing inward mingled with his breath. Still, for an instant, he supported himself, strongly convulsed, yet striving with his agony; then his limbs became suddenly relaxed, and he fell back lifeless upon the sand. Giafar cast a glance upon the changing, stiffening features of his adversary, as he lay prostrate before him, then, mounting his horse, spurred hastily across the plain. The fight was becoming every moment more remote. The rebels were flying and falling beneath the blows of their victorious enemies—enemies who had no touch of mercy, or thought of sparing the foes of their calif and their God. Far over the plain the form of the prince might still at intervals be seen, dealing death upon the flying, and when darkness and the tumult hid him from sight, his voice sounding above the distant din in that terrific exclamation, "Allah ackbar!" told the work in which he was yet engaged. Morning saw that conspiracy broken and scattered, and ere the sun set upon Bagdad, naught remained to point out the danger and the strife which had passed away, save the lifeless bodies strewn over the desert, and the heads of Iahia and his chief officers frowning in death upon the walls of the city.

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CHAPTER XIV.

He comes, from battle and from war, He comes, victorious from afar.

Months passed away, and tidings of victory came often from the absent monarch. Defeated in battle, the emperor had recourse to the snare of a deceitful truce, and after the retreat of the victorious calif, swept without opposition the fields which had been so hardly contested. The news of this outrage reached the ears of the calif as he was conducting homeward his wearied warriors down the banks of the Euphrates. Burning with rage, he recrossed the mountains of Asia Minor amid the snows of winter, and carried desolation even to the walls of Constantinople. Nicephorus yielded to the storm, and a disgraceful tribute marked his submission.

Meanwhile the prince was occupied with the domestic cares of the kingdom. His vigorous and skilful administration was felt in the most distant portions of the state, remedying disorders that seemed too remote and minute for a supervision less watchful than his own. The capital, however, fell more immediately under his observation; and the order and industry of its inhabitants testified the respect which they paid to his authority, and the security with which they reposed under its protection. Often did he wander through the city by night, to detect those crimes which else might have escaped his notice; disguised, he suffered the insolence, while he discovered the debauchery of the licentious; and the boldest in guilt trembled at the name and presence of the vizier Giafar. Assiduous attention to these duties, whiled the time away; yet many solitary hours did he pass, pondering upon the charms of his mistress. He had not seen her since their interview at the cave of the dervis; yet the remembrance of that hour almost sufficed to render him happy. He knew now that he was beloved; and to know this was everything to the enamoured prince. Careless of his future fate, he thought only of the present, and anxiously awaited the return of his victorious master. * * * * * * * *

* * * * * * * *

Spring comes like a queen, with her armies of flowers, "brandishing the weapons of their pointed leaves." Winter, the tyrant, flies, for the nightingale proclaims her sovereign's approach, and the dove and linnet are chanting her praises in the groves. The calif has returned. He enters Bagdad, as he oft had entered it before, in triumph, and his rejoicing subjects flock to welcome their victorious lord. He had returned after a long but fortunate campaign. The terror of his arms had been diffused throughout the remote West; the Roman empire trembled at his name; and an embassy from Charlemagne testified the esteem of his great rival, flattering his pride, if it added not to the stability of his kingdom.

Thus prosperous, both at home and abroad, the monarch now turned his thoughts to an object that interested him far more than all others. This was the marriage of the vizier Giafar to his daughter Abassa. His subjects are eagerly awaiting the nuptials; naught is heard throughout the kingdom but the praises of the prince, worthy alone, they say, to receive the hand of the "Rose of Persia." Friends warmly congratulate him upon his approaching marriage, and esteem him the happiest of the happy. The venerable Iahia alone seemed not to participate in the general joy. The family of the Barmecides was already the most illustrious in the kingdom, and this was distinction sufficiently honourable, in a land where hereditary nobility was unknown, and where rank depended upon offices of trust, which were granted by the favour or justice of the monarch. But the boundary which separated them from the throne was now to be passed. His family was about to be allied to the sacred race of Abbas, and in the veins of his son's sons would flow the same blood which had once warmed the bosom of the uncle of the Prophet. The old man foresaw the evils which might arise, and at no distant day, from the dazzling, though dangerous alliance, and he trembled as he thought upon them. He knew not, however, the stern precaution which the calif had adopted to prevent those dangers which he feared; and had he known of this, instead of diminishing his anxieties it would only have increased them, and in a tenfold degree. Concealing his useless uneasiness, the old man, though inwardly sorrowing, looked calmly upon the preparations for the intended nuptials.

The prince has resigned his office into the hands of his master, that the toils of public life may not divide those hours which are destined by the calif to social and unfettered enjoyment. The post of vizier has been conferred upon Fadhel, Giafar's elder brother. The contract of marriage has been signed and sealed—the imam has recited the customary formula—the legal ceremonies have been performed, and all things are ready for the reception of the princess at the abode of the expecting Giafar.

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CHAPTER XV.

His floating robe around him folding, Slow sweeps he through the columned aisle. With dread beheld, with gloom beholding, The rites that sanctify the pile.

Giaour.

Joy and festivity reign throughout the city. For three days sumptuous cavalcades and magnificent processions are passing to and fro, throughout the streets, bearing the customary presents from the father of the bride, to the abode of the favoured bridegroom. Gay robes, rich furniture, bright vases of gold and silver, with jewels of high worth, blaze in succession on the way. The rarest treasures of Asia mingle with the more useful but less costly productions of the West. "The hand of Liberality fills the lap of desire," and all eyes are wondering at the calif's bounty.

Bright lights gleam at night from mosque and college, and from every terrace burning lamps are sending to heaven their perfume. The nights vie with the, days in splendour. The Tigris rolls its waters through a plain of light; for on either side, palace and bazaar, and the various dwellings which skirt the stream, are pouring from their windows a blaze as of noonday. The bridge of boats which crosses the river is illuminated, and the tapers reflected in its waters mingle with the planets which hold their course through the mimic heaven beneath. Burning torches sail eddying and whirling down the stream like stars that have fallen, and float unextinguished upon its surface. "The carpet of gayety is spread." The chanting of merry voices, the sound of lute and tabour fall upon the ear. Joy is heard in the light step of him that passes, and in the breeze that murmurs gladly by.

On the fourth day, the bride is carried in a litter to the palace of the prince, escorted by a numerous band of maidens. The calif and Giafar follow, reining noble steeds, and after them throng a numerous retinue of friends and dependants.

A long canopy of silk extends from the royal palace to the abode of the prince, under which the procession passes, shielded from the burning sun. Amid loud outbursting music, they enter the prince's dwelling, and throng through its spacious chambers. The apartment into which were ushered the most important personages of the assemblage, and into which all crowded that could gain admission, was a vast hall, supported by ranging pillars, where cascades and fountains were mingling their sounds with the music of the cymbal and tabour.

The hours pass gayly to the joyous guests. The sun is gone, and his absence is supplied by a thousand lamps that hang suspended from the carved ceilings and brightly painted walls. Blazing jewels, too, that sparkle upon the richly habited throng like stars, throw their bright rays upon the splendid scene. The jest, the song, the dance, make up the round of pleasure, and all seem happy. The delighted Giafar smiles, and the calif is the gayest of the gay.

The princess enters often the apartment, at each time changing anew her rich robes for garments yet more splendid. But wealth and art are exhausted, and she at last appears, covered with a veil of crimson silk bordered with jewels and with gold. Ere he bends with her before the calif, the bridegroom is clothed with a costly habit studded with gems, the gift of the Commander of the Faithful. They approach together to the monarch's feet. His liberal hand has showered pearls upon the head of his bending daughter, and his lips are about to unclose to pronounce a blessing on his children, when—

"Hold! forbear!" exclaimed a stern voice, and all eyes were directed to a dark form which at that moment glided ghostlike into the apartment. He wore the garments of a fire worshipper. Instead of turban, the cap of a Giaour covered his head, and his soiled and hoary beard descended to the leathern belt which encircled his waist. Muttered curses were heard throughout the hall, while astonishment and indignation were visible in the face of every guest as they descried these emblems of the outcast. All made way for him as he approached, gathering up their garments, and shrinking from the touch of the defiled infidel, and he advanced through the throng close to the side of the calif.

So deeply was the calif interested in the bridal ceremonies, that he was unaware of the Giaour's approach until he had advanced close to his side; No sooner had he cast his eyes upon the strange intruder than he started; then composing his countenance gazed upon him in silence. In an instant, an interval of years was removed, and things long past were present to his remembrance; for in the person of the dark infidel who stood before him he knew the form and features of that mysterious being who had rescued his father's legacy from the waters of the Tigris. Mastering the awe that was creeping upon him, he said, firmly, "Is it thou, strange being?—wherefore art thou here?"

"In an hour when thou lookest not for me, I have come," was the reply.

"Thou sayst rightly," answered the monarch, firmly. "I looked not to see thee at such a time. What wouldst thou with me?"

"Canst thou not surmise mine errand?" replied the Giaour. "Have the years which have rolled by since we last met, effaced from thy memory the events of that day?"

"As though they were of yesterday, I remember them," said the calif.

"On that day I brought from the deep the jewel that now adorns thy—"nay, 'tis not there, thou wearest it not! Thou hast not parted with it?" exclaimed the aged infidel, in a thrilling tone. "Yet—no, no! thou couldst not thus despise my warning!"

"Question me not, old man," said Haroun, with as much firmness as he could assume, "but proceed as to the purpose of thy coming."

"Thy promise—the boon which thou art pledged to grant me—thou canst not have forgotten it."

"I remember well. In requital for thy service on that day, I passed my royal word to grant thee any boon thou mightst demand, so that it injured not the honour and safety of our holy faith, and the well-being of our subjects. Well, go on!"

"For that purpose have I now come—to claim the fulfilment of thy promise."

"This is no place, old man. At another hour, and it shall be thine—but the time is ill fitting. Dost thou not mark how thy presence casts a gloom on all around?"

"If the gloom of to-day dispel the darkness of to-morrow the time is well fitting," replied the stranger. Then casting his eyes slowly around upon the assemblage, he added, "But thou sayst aright; fear sits in the face of every guest, yet who seems more sad than yon bridegroom, who now clasps the hand of that maiden, her of the cypress form. There is mystery here—how should this be?"

Anger predominated over awe for a moment in the calif's bosom, and he replied quickly, "Thou art over bold. Once more, I bid thee question me not."

"As I live!" interrupted the Giaour, "that ring! it is the same! 'Tis shining on the prince's finger. Rash monarch! what hast thou done? Thou hast slighted my warning, thou hast scorned my counsel. What shall hinder that sorrow and ruin come not upon thee, and upon thy race?"

"It is written!" said the monarch, gloomily, impressed, despite his efforts, by the earnest manner in which the Giaour addressed him.

"Naught is written but thine own folly and presumption; the evils which should follow may yet be averted, if thou wilt listen to me; if thou refuse not the boon that thou hast already promised to bestow."

"Speak on then, but quickly," said the calif.

"My words are for thine ear alone," replied the infidel.

At a sign from the Commander of the Faithful all drew back dismayed, and wondering at the emotion evinced by the calif at the words of that old man. The stranger then approached more closely to the monarch's side, and said, in a low voice,

"Seek not, imperious prince, to oppose the laws by which the God thou worshippest rules his servants. Thou hast joined thy children in marriage, but thou hast fettered their union by a grievous chain. Remove it—render them free and happy. So shalt thou avoid the danger which now threatens thee, and avert such sorrow as will one day overwhelm thy soul with its bitterness."

It was with the utmost difficulty that the calif could restrain his anger sufficiently to await the conclusion of the stranger's words. He did so, however; but fire flashed from his eyes, and his bearded lip quivered with agitation; and when the old man had finished speaking, he exclaimed quickly, and aloud,

"Accursed dog! who has counselled thee to this? There is treason in thy words, and, by my right hand! the traitor shall suffer."

As he spoke, his eyes glanced around the assemblage until they rested on Giafar. But the prince was too much occupied in his own emotions to be moved by, or even to heed the scrutinizing glance of his master. The strange tale which he had so lately heard, had not yet passed from his remembrance. He could not doubt that the infidel before him was the same mysterious stranger, whose warning to the calif had impressed his bosom with such fear. Amazement and awe were strongly depicted in his countenance, as he gazed upon the scene before him, and listened to the fearful forebodings of his heart. Thus absorbed, he endured the gaze of the calif with unruffled composure. Haroun, half divested of his suspicions, hesitated, seemed irresolute, then turned again to the stranger, whose attitude exhibited a calmness, which was the more striking contrasted with the agitation that affected all present

"Who art thou?" he said.

The Giaour spoke not.

"Whence hast thou thy knowledge?"

The stranger pointed upward, and a solemn and fearful smile lightened up his dark features, but he spoke not a word.

"Say rather from thine own dark abode. No good angel would wear that garb. Thou mayst be Eblis's self—against whom we implore thine aid, most merciful Allah!"

Talismans were sought and clasped by trembling hands. Prayers were uttered. Many called aloud upon the most merciful, self-subsisting, all-wise Allah, or by whatever attribute they chose to invoke the protection of the Divinity. Female voices were also heard, mingling their sweet but tremulous intonations in the adjurations and prayers that were uttered around them. Many of careless and dissolute lives were seen gathering around some good imam, whose presence they would have carefully avoided at a season of mirth; and even in that hour of terror the saint could not repress his pride, as he bade them grasp the skirts of his garments, and remain fast by his holy person.

"If thou art that dark spirit," continued the calif, when he had somewhat repressed his fears—"if thou art that dark spirit, leave me—tempt me no more. That thou art an enemy to our holy faith I know full well, from the boon which thou hast proffered. Yet, infidel or fiend, whiche'er thou art, thou shalt fail of thine unhallowed purpose. The evils which might accrue to Islamism, from a race too nearly allied to my house, could alone be averted by the restraint which, as the guardian of our faith, I have laid upon the union of my children. I wonder not it should displease thee. Thou wouldst scatter the seeds of strife in the bosom of religion, ay, within the walls of paradise, if thou couldst. But be gone!" Here the calif's voice echoed in thrilling tones throughout that spacious hall. "I heed thee not. Though a legion of fiends should oppose me, I will not alter my determination. I will have no offspring of Giafar al Barmeki and my daughter strive, when I am dead, to wrest the sceptre from the grasp of my sons."

All heard and wondered at this announcement. Giafar was pale as marble, and the princess trembled, and leaned upon his arm for support.

"Is thine honour of no worth, then? Is thy plighted faith naught?" exclaimed the Giaour. "Thou hast promised to grant my prayer, and yet I ask in vain."

"If thou art mortal, demand some other boon. Ask for lands, rich jewels, steeds, wealth illimitable, and they shall be thine; but this comes not within the bounds of my promise."

"For myself I wish nothing. The treasures of this world cannot enrich one who has no part in its cares. I plead but for others; and, mark me well! the day is coming when thou wouldst part with half thy kingdom, if thou couldst recall this hour."

The calif sternly shook his head.

"Be not blind to their fate," continued the Giaour. "Upon the face of yon bridegroom sit youth and manhood, and that rich veil, if I guess aright, conceals a fair form, and a bosom swelling with love and hope. Need I say more? Canst thou, by a word, extinguish the flame of affection, and chill the warm blood that courses through their veins? Be wise in time. Wilt thou not bitterly repent, when thy commands shall be disobeyed? Wilt thou not forgive? The punishment will not be—"

"It shall be death," interrupted the calif, in the most fearful tones. Then turning to the prince, he said, "Hearest thou, Giafar?"

The prince bowed his head, and placed his hand upon his bosom, in token of his devotion to his master's will. As for the princess, she trembled more violently, and would have fallen, had not Giafar's arm supported her.

"And now, strange man, away!" exclaimed the monarch. "Thou talkest in vain. I will not listen to thee. Away! keep us no longer from the holy rites."

Haroun waved his hand impatiently, and turned to complete the yet unfinished ceremonies. When he again looked, the infidel was gone. The spell which the presence of the Giaour seemed to have cast upon the monarch, vanished when the infidel was no longer present. Suspicion and anger were in an instant awake.

" 'Tis knavery! 'tis a cheat!" he exclaimed. "Which way went he? Saw none of you his departure?"

The astonished guests pointed in various directions, in which, as it appeared to their troubled fancies, the Giaour had left the hall.

"Seek him, Mesrour—seek him all. Search the building from court to terrace—scour the garden—drag him to my presence. I would again question the slave. Away—quickly!"

All the recesses of palace and garden are hastily searched, but without success. They return one by one, and to the calif's question, "Have you found him?" all have the same reply. Mesrour, indeed, brought word that, in crossing one of the walks of the court, he passed a holy man, who was performing his ablutions before a fountain. Save him, no person had been found within the walls.

"A dervis!" said the calif, quickly, when Mesrour had spoken. "Didst thou scan him closely? Were there no tokens of the Giaour upon him?"

"There were none, may it please the Commander of the Faithful. He wore a white turban, and was robed in the blue habit of a sheik."

"Art thou sure?" said the calif. "Have not thine eyes deceived thee? Eblis has power to-night. Why didst thou not question him?"

"May it please the calif," replied Mesrour, "I feared to interrupt the saint's devotions. But there could be no deceit. A rosary[11] was in his hands, and on returning, I heard him, as he passed the beads through his fingers, call aloud upon the sacred names and attributes of the Most High."

" 'Tis well, let it pass," said Haroun, relapsing into thought. Giafar and the princess, trembling and agitated, now kneel again at his feet, and roused from his revery, the calif coldly pronounces a blessing upon their heads. The ill-omened nuptials are over.

The princess, having bent lowly before her stern father, retired, accompanied by her damsels. After her departure all crowd around the prince, with kind greetings, and warm wishes for his happiness; but they are coldly uttered, and sound like mockery to his ear. His father and brothers look sadly upon him, and, as they clasp him in their arms, bid him be of good cheer. Giafar receives them with vacant gaze—he heeds them not—his thoughts are at times fixed upon the trying present, and at times upon the threatening future.

"I have seen to-night," he whispered to himself, "another link in the chain that is dragging me to my ruin!"

Yet, however absorbing were his fears, they vanished from his mind, and gave way to emotions far more poignant, as he retired from the nuptial chamber, and sought alone his solitary apartment. Mockery again greets him as he crosses the threshold of his own chamber; for there, as though their mistress were reposing within, the maidens of the bride are grouped together, as is the custom, and affect to oppose his entrance. Their feigned resistance is but short: the temper of Giafar can ill brook such foolery, and he dashes rudely by them into the apartment. We will not tarry by the couch of the sad bridegroom. May he slumber, if his thoughts will let him. Sleep, deep and undisturbed, such as visits not the eyes of mortals, save by the aid of poppy juice, or black Thebaic tincture, should steep his senses in oblivion. He will not else forget his cares.

The calif has retired, gloomy and disturbed. Each wondering guest has departed to his own home, and the hall is deserted. The lamps, which shone so brightly, are extinguished by the slaves of the palace, and darkness covers all things. But now the moon appears with her pale light, ascending slowly above the horizon. Arise, chaste Diana, shine coldly out in the heavens—triumph if thou wilt: Hymen has deserted the sweet queen of love, and for once follows captive in thy train.

————

CHAPTER XVI.

How welcome is each gentle air That wakes and wafts the odours there! For there—the rose o'er crag and vale, Sultana of the nightingale, The maid for whom his melody, His thousand songs are heard on high, Blooms blushing to her lover's tale.

Giaour.

After the marriage of Giafar to his daughter, the calif's affection for the prince seemed to have vanished, and in its stead fear and suspicion had entered his bosom: suspicion, that the appearance of the stranger, who had borne so eventful a part in the occurrences of the nuptial evening, had been caused by Giafar himself, in hopes that by working upon the fears of his master, he might be induced to retract his purpose with regard to the union of his children; fear, lest an alliance, commenced under circumstances so inauspicious, might terminate in disobedience and punishment. Anger also moved him, when he remembered that in the confusion of his soul, he had then revealed the harsh constraint which he had thrown upon the affections of his children, thus rendering their present lot and their future fortunes subjects for raillery and scoffing in the mouths of a busy world. He had wished the prince to enjoy, in the estimation of his subjects, all the honour and happiness which should of right belong to an alliance so exalted and so envied, while in reality he would bind him, by the most stern threatenings, to err in nowise from the commands which he had imposed upon him. Yet, in each wish he feared disappointment. His own haste and imprudence had already foiled the one, and the other, and more important, was threatened by the darkest omens. All his fond schemes appeared frustrated. Those very means which were intended to strengthen the ties of friendship, seemed instead to have torn them wide asunder.

'Tis plain—the favour of the calif is withdrawn from Giafar, and a servile and envious court look with a cold eye upon him, who but now seemed to stand upon the topmost pinnacle of fortune. They thought him degraded and disgraced. They thought that if he basked not in the sunshine of royal favour his hours must needs be cold and comfortless, and they pitied and slighted him. Thus the poor savage reasons. The brightness of the sun he fancies is extinguished in the depths of ocean when he withdraws his rays from his own narrow horizon; and knows not that they still enlighten a magnificent and glorious universe.

Though deprived of the friendship of his master, and secluded from the gayety of the court, yet, in the sweet retirement of his home, Giafar found peace and uninterrupted joy. Within its hallowed precinct, the cares, the fears, the feverish anxieties of the busy world dared not intrude. The stern coldness of his master, and the chilling indifference of hollow-hearted friends, were here alike shut out and forgotten; here, at least, in the presence of his bride, his own Abassa, the young prince was happy. Little to him were light and favour, but as they shone forth upon him from beneath the lids of her bright eyes; little were mirth and joy, though heard it might be in tones of softest music, or the glad sounds of many mirthful friends, unless her dear voice echoed near him in its thrilling melody. The air was heavy, and the bird's note sad, heaven's brightness dim, the sky cheerless, when she was absent; and with her the season had no storms, earth no sorrows, fortune no frowns that could disturb him. All his gloomiest anticipations vanished then, and all his cares were amply compensated by the dear delight which her presence shed continually upon him.

What a strange pleasure is it to be near the one we love! hour after hour, day after day to watch her. To listen to that voice sounding its music on the soul—to gaze with timid eyes upon a face so dear—to touch perchance a hand that trembles to our own, while the strange thrill that vibrates through the frame proves us we are not "clay." To scan together with affected care some book or jewel which the rapt senses heed not—when the bright locks are mingling with our own, sweet heralds, that tell us that a brow or cheek is near, which yet we dare not press. What magic is there in the heart by which we know when eyes we love are gazing on us, that tells us whose step it is advances, although the fairy feet are yet unseen?

But the festivities which ensued upon the nuptials are scarcely over, when the heats of summer drive the wealthy and luxurious into the inviting retreats of the neighbouring country. The Commander of the Faithful departs for Raccah, his favourite residence on the river Euphrates, and Giafar with his bride leaves the city, to pass the summer months at his gardens on the banks of the Tigris. * * * * *

* * * * * *

Circassia's fairest flowers are blooming in the harem of the bridegroom, but they have no charms for him. Music and the echoing dance resound merrily through the palace halls, yet Giafar heeds them not. Love led, he daily bends his steps to the private gardens of his palace. There, verdant trees spread their shade and fragrant shrubs diffuse their perfume throughout the air. Fountains sounding "sweeter than a well-tuned lute," pour around their murmuring waters, and singing birds are heard breathing their sweet notes in the groves. Beneath the feet a carpet of flowers is spread; every breeze shakes them from the drooping boughs, and spatters them widely around. "Beautiful butterflies are seen whirling through the air, like rose leaves driven by the wind."

The Tigris rolls its waters at one extremity of the garden, where, as though it would encroach upon a spot so delightful, it had formed a small bay, or slight indentation in the shore. Here the gentler waters retiring from the rude current of the river, seemed to lave and caress that sweet bank, near which its enamoured waves would fain have lingered. Naught is seen but one bright, one perfect picture; every breath is odour, every sound is music. Paradise seems here to display its paths, and invite the feet to wander through, its delightful mazes. Yet did they wind through a trackless and interminable desert, with no less pleasure and alacrity would Giafar have trod them, for here, at the selfsame hour, daily walks the princess of his soul.

A beautiful kiosk, built upon the river's edge, was, by tacit consent, their place of meeting. Vast pillars of porphyry sustained its roof, the spaces between which were built up with white marble, curiously carved, and reaching breast high, thus forming a sort of parapet over which one might lean and look down into the current below. From this to the gilded roof close latticework surrounded the building, by which, during the heat of the day, the sun's rays were excluded, yet through which Zephyr, if he whispered ever so gently without, found a ready entrance.

Perfumed lamps were here continually burning, and odours of all climes greeted the ravished senses. A flight of steps descended to the ground, and led the way to a suite of subterranean chambers, consisting of baths, and apartments replete with every oriental luxury. Slaves were in attendance here below, but they were invisible, and their duties seemed performed by the ready hands of obedient genii.

Here, in this delightful pavilion, the princess, after the completion of her domestic and religious duties, was wont to seclude herself. Here were her lute, her books, her flowers, and here she was sure to see one who was dearer to her than all these combined. Here, when the sun shone warmly at noon, refreshed by the breeze, or by the cool evaporation from the river's surface, they read, or talked, or sang. When evening came, the moon was welcomed through the opened lattice, and leaning forth, they gazed upon the heavens, and spoke of its beauties, its inhabitants, of the angels that dwell in every little star, vainly wishing they might inhabit one together. When they looked upward upon the smiling scene, they seemed content; yet when they gazed upon the stream below, hurrying swiftly by them, at that vivid emblem of their own fleeting happiness, they wept. Even this, however, was pleasure to them; for who knows not how sweet it is to fear, to tremble, and to weep with one we love?

When the face of night darkened and frowned, they withdrew from her chilling aspect, and forgetting her inconstancy, by the light of faithful lamps pursued their pleasures. Ofttimes soft music from the river's edge, chosen by the exquisite taste of the prince, soothed and delighted them, as if the peris and genii of the waters were chanting to them from their deep homes. Thus passed the hours. But little was wanting to complete their happiness. And who below the skies can boast of unalloyed felicity? Ofttimes 'tis a small thing mars our joys. Does not the annoying insect disturb repose in the delightful garden, where nature is at peace, and whispers it to mortals?

One bright evening they were looking forth together from their favourite retreat. Night had clothed herself in loveliness. Stars, bright as the eyes which were gazing on them, shone in the heavens, and a mild moon held her course far above them. Beneath were the same heavens distinctly reflected in the Tigris.

All was still, except the bulbul with his sweet note complaining near them, and the roses hung their heads and blushed as they listened to his song. The breeze from the adjacent meadows wafted to them the odour of its wild heather, and the sweet-scented henna flowers sent up their fragrance from the vases in the garden beneath. Above these, however, the perfume of the rose was easily distinguishable; and in such profusion was its fragrance diffused around, that the song of the poet seemed divested of its hyperbole, and "the dew of night was changed into rose water ere it fell to earth."

They had been long looking upon this scene of beauty, and talking with mutual delight of a thousand topics which readily presented themselves to their minds, when their conversation took gradually a melancholy turn. They spoke of their future fate, and of the many chances which might separate them—of their present happiness, and of their fears lest it might soon be dissipated—dreading even the most remote contingencies lest they should bring them sorrow. At last Giafar proposed to cast the horoscope of their future fate.

"Let us inquire of the heavens," he said, "which seem so to smile upon us, whether, indeed, they do not threaten misfortune and misery. Even the stars, my life, are deceitful."

"I could weep to hear it," answered the princess. "I have been fancying that truth dwelt in them, and wishing that this earth was as pure and happy as all seems to be above. Why did you undeceive me? But do they indeed frown upon us, Giafar? They seem to smile most sweetly. I would I knew it not."

"Nay, my life, I know not that they portend us ill. Perchance our fate is written there above, in lines as bright and cheering as their own beams. I will look at the Ephemerides, and in a moment—"

"Nay, do not," interrupted Abassa; "why should we wish to know the future? Let us be content that at present we are happy."

"True, true," replied the prince, somewhat sadly, and as he spoke he bent his head, and imprinted a kiss upon her hand which he had before taken, and had held for some time enclosed in his. A rebuking look and word chid him for his fault, yet the fair hand was not withdrawn, although he held it lightly between his own.

Suddenly her eyes were attracted by a bright shooting star. "Look! look! see there!" It was gone. "What should that teach us, Giafar?" she said, turning towards him, after a moment's silence, and withdrawing the hand which he still detained in his.

"I know not, dearest," was the reply; "what lesson wouldst thou draw from it?"

"Caution," replied Abassa. "How watchful are the angels that stand as sentinels above! When some evil spirit approaches the confines of those happy regions, listening to the converse of its blessed inhabitants, bright arrows[12] are quickly darted at him; and, ere he can catch one sound that is uttered, he is driven away, pursued by a shining flame. See! again!" she exclaimed, as the same phenomenon was for an instant again visible.

"True, light of mine eyes," answered the prince, in a strain of gayety, which he hoped would enliven her despondency; "they should well watch who guard paradise."

"And from evil spirits," she rejoined, taking for an instant a lightsome tone; then relapsing into her former melancholy, she continued: "But give not a meaning to my words that they deserve not, and do not think with jest and laughter to dispel the sadness that hangs over me. I cannot be mirthful to-night."

"Here is thy lute," said the prince, offering to her one that was near them—"take it, wilt thou not? Take it, and sing sorrow away; it will vanish when it hears thy voice."

"I cannot frame my lips to song," replied Abassa: "but do thou touch the strings and I will listen to thee delighted. Let it be something sad," she continued, as the prince prepared to comply with her request. "Thou canst not dispel my gloom; try to sooth and sweeten it."

Giafar then, accompanying his voice with great taste upon the instrument, sang a few verses expressive of the inconstancy of fortune, and of the power of mutual love to render mortals proof against its frowns. When the song was ended, the prince perceived that her cheek was wet with tears, and after a short prelude, he sang the following stanzas:—

"She was near me! Her tresses covered my brow—her sweet breathing warmed my cheek, and I said, 'Is it the west wind that brings with it so pleasant an odour, having passed over a meadow strewn with fragrant flowers, where the fire of Heaven has burned the sweet-scented aloe wood? or is it a caravan laden with musk from Khoten that is at hand?' "

" 'Tis beautiful!" said the princess, blushing—"but I will no longer listen to thee."

"I will sing yet again," was Giafar's reply, as he endeavoured to detain her in an affectionate embrace. She started from his arms, however, saying, "I cannot hear thee to-night," and approaching the door of the apartment, clapped her hands, when a slave entered, bearing a tray covered with fruits, sherbets, and various delicacies. Of these they partook slightly, intermingling their repast with mirthful or sad discourse, smiling or sighing, as the last thought prompted them—then committing each other to Allah's keeping for the night, they reluctantly parted.

————

CHAPTER XVII.

Oh weep not, lady, weep not so! Some ghostly comfort seek, Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, Nor tears bedew thy cheek.

Old Ballad.

Thus passed the days. But happiness is fleeting. Time flies bringing sorrow. The prince's temper has become fitful and varied. A frown is always on his brow, and each day he loses some part of that evenness of spirit which he once possessed in a degree so remarkable. His friends, his favourite servants, experience the effects of this change, and wonder at his harshness. He visits seldom that favourite kiosk, he seems rather to fear than covet its sweet and hallowed retirement, as though a fair demon tenanted the spot to charm him to his ruin.

He walks often by Abassa's side, pensive and sad, and often starts suddenly away to wander in the most secluded walks of his gardens. But the image of his wife follows him; he cannot be alone, he cannot rest. Her charms haunt his imagination, and like a steel arrow in his soul, disturb and madden him. He pours wine into the cup, and quaffs deeply of its unhallowed current; yet though he may forget himself, he cannot drown the remembrance of her beauty, or cease, even for a moment, to think of her, who has thrown a chain of love around him, and holds him captive therein. He seeks amid the wit and beauty of his harem to find those whom he may love, and endeavours in the society of his beautiful slaves to forget her. It is in vain. A moment of pleasure, of mirth is passed, and then follow the slowly rolling hours, which are spent in thoughts of her.

Abassa, too, is sad. She looks for him who is her hope, her happiness, but he is no longer near to cheer and delight her. She seeks their loved retreat, where she was ever wont to find him, but he is not there. That dear chamber seems a wilderness. Her flowers wither. Her lute is unstrung; its rich music slumbers upon its loosened chords. Her heart is like the desert, as desolate and as burning—burning with a warm love; ay, and another restless, torturing passion, is lighting up its young fires in her bosom. Her soul sinks within her as she thinks upon the fair forms that are imprisoned in the gay harem. "Ah, that he were here!" she would often murmur, "that he were now smiling upon me. And yet, perhaps, 'tis better thus—better that he should be away. If he were gone afar, upon some mission for my father, or to the wars—Heaven shield him!—I tremble while I think upon it—I should be happier, more content than now; but to know him near me, and yet so seldom see him—to fear, too, alas! what now I fear." A frown, with something of anger in it, gathers upon her brow, and the quick crimson hurries into her cheek. But this soon passes, and her face resumes its patient sadness.

The colour upon her cheek has slightly faded; her rounded form has lost somewhat of its fulness, and her once buoyant step has become slow and languid. Yet is her beauty softened, not diminished, and the sweetness of her spirit is in nowise altered. Complaint is written in her countenance, yet she speaks it not. She seems an angel, wearied with sorrows, silently looking into the face of Heaven her reproaches. This change in the spirits and appearance of Abassa did not escape the observation of the good Ibrahim, for she visited him often, and he tried frequently to encourage and console her. She had not imparted her sorrows to him, as she was wont, yet he readily divined their nature; and approached with care a task, which he felt to be so difficult and delicate.

In one of their interviews, the old man strove with all his skill and kindness to cheer her melancholy. They were walking together in the grove of palm trees which grew at the foot of the mountain, the spot where she had heard from Giafar's lips the first avowal of his love; where, too, she had told him, with a sweet and expressive look, the secret which she had treasured up in her own heart. There was the little lake, with its tributary fountains, hurrying with the same soft murmur into its bosom. The palm trees were still waving in the wind, the dates were, as then, hanging in ripe clusters upon their lofty branches. The birds were as happy and their song as melodious. The good dervis was standing before her, nothing altered. Everything around reminded her of that long-past yet well remembered interview. She looked for a moment, half expecting to see the prince advance to complete the scene. Her thoughts soon reverted to her present condition, and she wept. How was she changed; health, heart, temper, all changed, and becoming each day more feeble, fitful, and capricious. The prince, too, where was he? where was he now? She turned her head, thinking to hide her tears, but not so soon as to escape the notice of the dervis. "Thou art weeping, my daughter," he said; "why dost thou grieve?"

"This scene, father, brings to my mind the past," replied the maiden, endeavouring to subdue her emotion. "I did weep—yes, a few tears—why should I conceal them?—for departed hours. Hast thou never done this?"

"I have regretted time misspent; I have wept over its loss, and have wished to recall it, that I might better employ its hours."

"But did you never grieve for happiness that has flown? Do you not, at times, lament the loss of some bright moments, when joy was ever at hand, when pleasure shed its sweet influence upon every hour?"

"Happiness never deserts the innocent," replied the dervis. "Yon birds, how gay and joyous are they?"

"And wherefore should they not be so?" answered the princess. "The air is free to them. Nature offers all her bounty to their enjoyment."

" 'Tis the reward of innocence, my daughter. They who err not are always at peace. Many are there in this busy world, who might receive a useful lesson, would they but listen to the song of those happy warblers, and ponder upon their sinless existence."

"I would I were a bird," exclaimed Abassa, sighing heavily as she spoke.

"Thou errest, daughter, in thy wish. Why shouldst thou envy them? They have no hope beyond the present hour, no promise of felicity that can never end. But thou art unhappy. Some secret grief weighs heavily upon thy spirit. Is it not so?"

"I unhappy, father?" answered the maiden, evading, though she scarce knew why, the old man's scrutiny. "Have my lips breathed a murmur?

has my tongue uttered aught that could lead thee to think this?"

"Do not deny me thy confidence," replied the dervis, somewhat reproachfully. "Yet thou canst not deceive me. I read that in thy sad countenance which thy lips refuse to tell. I look not to thy words. One who has lived his fourscore years, in the varied scenes which are this world's portion, heeds not the tongue, but regards closely the cheek that is daily growing pale, the eye that is saddening, and the youthful form that fast fades. I have seen these long in thee. I have noted, too, the sighs that often heave thy bosom, and the tears—nay, they are now glistening in thine eyes. Hide not thy sorrows from me. Thou hast those which thou wouldst fain conceal, but keep them no longer from one who in truth loves thee. My counsel may cheer and support thy spirit."

"Thou art right," answered Abassa. "Sorrow has indeed laid its hand upon me. But tell not of it. I would hide it from him—I would hide it from all the world. But how have I merited this grief?" continued the maiden. "Answer me, father. If, as thou sayst, the innocent are always happy, of what dark crime have I been guilty, that I should be thus wretched?"

"If of none other, yet of this, my daughter: thou hast failed of confidence in Heaven. Thou hast not given up thy hopes into the hands of Him who will of a surety protect and strengthen those who repose alone upon his goodness. Thou shouldst not yield up thy firmness, but wait in patience for a happier season to arrive."

"I am a woman, father, weak and helpless. Blame me not, then, but teach me to support my sorrows."

The old man looked upon her for a moment, with something approaching to wonder in his countenance, as the maiden thus avowed her grief, and then answered,

"Be not thus overcome. The trial which is now bending thy spirit beneath its weight may not long endure. Changing events may soon bring peace to thy bosom. Thy father may repent him of his stern decree, and all happiness with him thou lovest may be thine."

At these words the princess started, as if in surprise and uncertainty; her brow crimsoned, and she seemed about to speak, but the dervis continued,

"Arm thyself with fortitude, my daughter. Shake off, as ill befitting thine honour and thy pride, the dominion of those emotions which threaten to destroy thy peace."

The princess turned an inquiring gaze upon the face of the old man, as though she would read his most secret thoughts; then, as she seemed to gather more clearly the purport of his words, an indignant flush passed across her features, and in a tone of dignity and wounded pride, tempered, indeed, by respect and affection, she replied,

"Father, I have known thee long and loved thee well. I have sought thee, when sorrow and affliction have come 'nigh me. I have ever listened to thy counsel with delight, and never till now has aught fallen from thy lips which sounded harshly upon mine ear. But now thy words are strange and ill advised. Nay, listen to me. I will speak freely to thee, for thou hast been a father to my youth. I will not question thy love or thy wisdom—but know, if there be aught in thy thoughts unworthy of me, or of the husband of my love—ay, and of thyself, too, father—thou hast widely erred."

"Pardon me, my child. Forgive the eager care of an old man. It was my purpose to console and strengthen thee."

"I think no more of it. But hear me. I thought not to impart my grief to mortal. I have oft breathed it to Heaven, whence alone I look for relief, but since thou hast thus misjudged me, thou shall know all. He loves me no longer!"

She paused, the tears came into her eyes, and the dervis exclaimed,

"Of whom dost thou speak?"

"Of Giafar—of my husband," was the reply. "I see him seldom now. His presence no more cheers my solitude. His heart is estranged from me; there are others more dear to him than his wife—than I. If my face is pale, it is for this—it is for this I sigh; and if the hot and bitter tears scald my cheek as they fall, it is through grief for his lost love."

"Believe it not. It cannot be," replied the dervis. "I know thy husband well. I know that his heart is thine, that thou alone hast power over his soul, and that power is wide and unlimited."

"Why, then, tell me, why is he ever from me? Why does he linger in the harem, there, where the fairest of the land are grouped together, and leave me weeping at his absence?"

"Is this so, indeed?" exclaimed the old man. "Is it for this thou grievest?"

"Even for this," replied Abassa. "And is not this enough? What loss more sad could befall me? I love him, I shame me not to confess. But have I bestowed upon him my warmest affection, to see it thrown aside as a thing worthless and despised? I have given him my heart, and his caprice and neglect have pierced it to the core. I meant not to speak thus to thee. These sorrows are mine alone, and I would share them with no one. Speak not to me. Let me weep. Yet no," she exclaimed—here the natural pride of the princess's character broke forth, her cheek coloured, and her eye flashed its fires—"I will not weep. I would weep for him, if danger or distance separated us; if death threatened, I would die for him; but I will think no longer of one who has forsaken and forgotten me."

"Be not thus disturbed," said the old man. "Thou art deceived in thy thoughts of thy husband's affection. He still loves thee tenderly—nay,

'tis that very love which keeps him from thy presence. His wishes for thy welfare and thy peace alone drive him from thy side, and make him seem forgetful of thee. Do not doubt my words. I have seen him often of late, and he is as sad and careworn as thyself."

"Does sorrow indeed disturb his bosom as it does mine own? Does he sigh thus bitterly, and weep? Yet no—tears fall not upon the cheek of man, even when the keenest pangs are rending his soul. But he—is he sad? is he silent?"

"He is as I have never seen him till now. He does not weep, as thou sayst, but his brow is ever clouded by care and anxiety; he is insensible to those pleasures which till now have well delighted him; the beauties of the sky and field, mine own poor converse, which once had influence over his soul, is lost upon him. He wanders in solitude, alone, tracking the sand with restless and unsteady steps, and seems rather to avoid than seek my presence. Even as I speak, I see him passing among the trees of yonder grove."

The dervis, as he said this, pointed to a group of cypress and palm trees, that grew in a cluster, at some distance from the cell. There, as he had said, was Giafar, walking at an irregular pace beneath the shade. His arms were crossed upon his bosom, and at times his hands were pressed quickly, and with apparent violence against his brow. He paused for a moment, leaning his head against a cypress, and then hurried quickly upon his path his steps becoming gradually more and more slow, until he became, as though unconsciously, motionless; then starting with an air of abstraction, he buried himself hurriedly in the recesses of the grove.

"Thou seest, my daughter," said the old man, who had followed him with his finger, until he had passed from their sight. "Is it not as I have told thee?"

The princess had watched, with an intent gaze, the gloomy and restless walk of her husband. The pride and anger which had for a moment been roused in her bosom vanished; the crimson with which they had suffused her face disappeared, and tears came into her eyes, marking her sympathy and sorrow. "It is so," she exclaimed. "Yet why?—yet why—" and she wept still more profusely.

"Ask not, my daughter. His griefs, it may be, are bitter as thine own. Add not, then, thy sorrows to the weight of those which already oppress his bosom. Let him not see thee weep thus. Let him not think that thou too art sad. This would give tenfold sharpness to the arrows that are rankling in his soul."

"Why should it be thus, father? Why should he shut his bosom against all sympathy from one he loves? and why should not I, if I have grief, share it with him. This would prove a solace to us both. We were happy once—a few short days have scarce passed, since I esteemed my lot most fortunate, and fondly thought that fortune could not snatch from me my joy, save in parting me from him. Then, all pleasures that this earth could offer seemed mine, and he partook them with me. His presence lent a charm to every hour, and rendered every enjoyment doubly pleasing. If care intruded its unwelcome presence upon our peaceful joys, ere it could cast a gloom upon our hearts, 'twas banished by his sweet words and smiles. Wherefore should not these days return?"

"They may," replied the old man. "Prudence and duty, with a stern hand, are now keeping the prince from thy beloved presence, and that hand holds a scimitar within its grasp. Yet be not discouraged by the prospect of the many evils which await thee on thy journey through this dreary life. Be at peace. When the storm is fiercest, the sunshine may be struggling through the clouds. Above all, cease not to love thy husband, although he for a time deserts thee; cease not to value him as thou oughtest."

"I will do so—ah, yes! Allah, who reads this bosom, alone knows how dear he is to me."

"Well, comfort thee, my child. If in this world some dark clouds intervene between us and that happiness we think should be our own, this is the lot of mortals. Yet it is but for a time. This world is but the threshold, the porch and vestibule unto another, where all sorrows will depart, and happiness, untainted by the frailties of this clay, shall be the lot of the resigned—(Moslem). Be patient, then. Even if thou dost tarry a while in sorrow here, there thou shalt gain uninterrupted joy. This is a choice that is offered to all; to give up this world for another and a better. Ponder well upon it then."

"Yes, father, I can wait. Happiness, thou sayst, will come at last."

"Heaven, my daughter, will be the reward of those who, with a humble spirit, support, without a murmur, the grief which the hand of Allah pours down upon their heads. Lay aside thy care: be not overcome by evils, which are but temporary, for one day, every sorrow that thou now hast may be changed into ten thousand joys, and thou wilt but frame a wish, and the highest and purest blessings shall be thine."

"There is one, father, without whom I would not—nay, I could not, be happy even there."

"Sin may sever the nearest ties," replied the old man; "but those who do aright shall dwell together in paradise, and never go out from that blessed abode."

Such consolation would the good old man administer to the trembling and griefworn princess. But all his care seemed to be in vain. Though she listened attentively to his words, and came again and again to hearken to his counsel, yet her sorrows would not be removed. For a short time, after an interview with the dervis, her brow would seem lighter, and her bosom more at ease; but again her griefs would return with redoubled keenness, and though none, save the venerable Ibrahim, knew of their nature, or their depth, yet their influence upon her frame was becoming each day more visible to all.

————

CHAPTER XVII.

Who that hath felt that passion's power, Or paused, or feared in such an hour?

Parisina.

Giafar and Abassa were again together in the kiosk. A silver basin of roses freshly culled was near them. "How like thee, my life!" said the prince, gazing fondly upon her.

"There are many here, my lord," replied Abassa, with a mournful smile; "to which of them wouldst thou liken me?"

"Nay, I cannot choose; they are all beautiful."

"Thou comparest me, with truth, Giafar," responded the princess, complainingly, "to a single rose in the group. Why didst thou not rather bring me a solitary flower, and say, 'Behold thyself!' 'Tis ill done, my lord; thou needst not show me my rivals, if I have them."

"Thy rivals!" exclaimed the prince, with ardour. "Thou hast none. Who can compare with thee in beauty and in worth? Look! here is thine emblem," he continued, and having selected the most beautiful rose in the vase, he isolated it from the rest, by inverting over the flower a goblet of glass.

"Nay, this is flattery. Thou hast chosen the loveliest," rejoined Abassa, and bending her head, as she spoke, over the fragrant group, she inhaled, with an expression of delight, the odour which their leaves emitted.

"Their perfume is indeed pleasant," said the prince; "but why hast thou neglected this, which thou esteemest the loveliest of them all?"

"That one?" replied Abassa. "The goblet encloses it. Its sweetness cannot penetrate beyond that prison of glass."

"Is it not like thee, then?" said the prince. "Art thou not with all thy loveliness enclosed as in a prison from me? Dost thou upbraid me, that I have culled sweet flowers, when the sweetest and the loveliest was beyond my reach? Thy rivals, sayst thou? ah, no! thou art the only rose that I prize; though wherefore should I?" he added, despondingly. "Why should I value a flower when its fragrance is debarred me? Shall it be ever thus? Let me loose the chains that bind thee. Let me free thee, as I set free this flower." As he said this, he struck the goblet with the signet ring which he wore upon his finger, and it fell crushed into many fragments, liberating the imprisoned rose, whose fragrance, collected during its temporary confinement, was wafted quickly to their senses. "Yes, let me free thee," he exclaimed, "and love long repressed shall richly repay our cares!"

"What dost thou mean, Giafar?" said the princess, striving to repress the crimson that was mantling her features. "What dost thou mean? I understand thee not."

"Let me transplant thee to some green spot in the desert, or to one of those remote islands which our Indian pearl divers so often tell of. There thou shalt be mine—alone, and for ever. No care shall come near us, or if it come, love, with its soft hand, shall stay the intruder, and banish him afar. Affection shall wrap us together as in a mantle, and we will not heed, though we may hear, the storm that blows rudely without. Come, wilt thou not? I have wealth sufficient to purchase all the pleasures that this world can offer. And without these, even if daily toil were our portion, together we could not fail of happiness. But oh! what mockery is grandeur when love unblest burns with its sharp fires in the soul!"

Drops fell from the lovely eyes of the princess upon the unconscious flowers. Was it they had stolen the colour from her cheek and lips? Something had, for her face was ashy pale, as, turning to her husband, she replied, "Does not the bulbul lament when the rose is torn from its stem? and are there none to weep for me? I have a father and a dear mother; shall I pour the cup of grief into their souls? I cannot—I love them too well. I would go with thee to the desert, or to those distant islands thou speakest of, if they are not fabulous—yes, as our dreams of happiness; but thou knowest, Giafar, that I cannot steal thus away from my parents. I cannot leave them lamenting over a daughter's ingratitude. Thou couldst not love me if I should. As to my rivals, believe me, I think not of them." A deep flush passed over her face as she spoke. "Forgive me! leave me!"

"Leave thee!" said the prince, drawing her tenderly towards him. "Say not so. I would make thee mine indeed—mine, beyond the rude mandates of thy father's power. Has not the sacred voice of religion and of Heaven bound us together? Why, then, should the breath of man thus sever us?"

"Nay, I will not listen to thee now," she exclaimed, shrinking with strange fear from his embrace. "To-morrow I will hear thee, but oh! not now!"

A frown knit the prince's brow, and approaching a low table which stood near, he poured out a bowl of Shiraz, and quaffed it quickly. He then remained for some moments silent and motionless, with his hand pressed against his forehead. "Nay, set down that goblet," said Abassa, as she saw him about to repeat the draught; "or if thou wilt thus sin, drink of the light Kismische, that will not madden thee, that will not so steep thy senses in forgetfulness."

"I would forget—myself, my sorrows, everything, even thee," was Giafar's reply, as he drained to the last drop the sparkling wine. "Thou wilt not listen to me, then, thou sayst?" he proceeded, controlling his emotion by a strong effort; "yet thou wilt, when I tell thee this—I think to leave Bagdad—start not! thou canst not feel it more than I. The future may yet have happiness in store for us. I will obtain from thy father the government of some distant province, the care of which may occupy my thoughts, and enable me, for a time at least, to forget thee. Yes, I will leave thee a while, until fortune, in its vicissitudes, shall reunite us under happier auspices."

"Leave me! Do not that, Giafar," she exclaimed, in a tone approaching to agony. "Oh! no, no!— you are not so cruel!—you will take me with you!"

" 'Tis better for us both that we should part. This strife of passion is wearing upon us both, and imbittering our existence. The colour is fading from thy cheek—thy health and spirits are daily wasting, and for myself to live thus, near thee, is impossible. I will not linger thirsting by the fountain, when I am forbidden to drink of its waters. No, though they be tempting and fair to view, were it the fount Cafur, that flows through paradise. Its stream is spicy and shining, yet to stand upon its margin, wishing, but fearing to drink—'twere a torment worthy the crimes of Eblis—a place deep within his dark dominion, methinks, were better."

"Thou art mad, Giafar!" exclaimed the princess, "thy brain is turned by that accursed draught."

"I feel it not," he replied. "I am not mad!—except to linger here be madness. Said I not, we must part?"

"Yes, but it was in jest—'twas but to try my love—say that it was so!—I can die, but thou must not leave me! Allah, have mercy on me!— I have life in none but thee," said the maiden, in an extremity of anguish. "I will do anything. To-night—this moment, I will fly with thee." She buried her face in her robe and endeavoured to resume her composure. "Ah me! I am a child. I have no constancy, no fortitude, that I should thus desert myself. Yet think well of it, Giafar," she continued, more calmly. "Shall we not be happier if we return to our old and long-neglected pursuits? Will not reason come once more to strengthen us, and render to us our peace again? Can we not forget—"

"It is impossible," quickly interrupted the prince. "Love, infinite love, has taken possession of my soul. And, after all, what is the penalty?" he continued, as his arm encircled her trembling form, and his voice assumed a strange sweetness—"what is the penalty? It is not misery, torturing and long to be endured—it is not what we have already suffered. No, it is but death, and that I know thou wouldst welcome with me!" As he said this, the prince pressed for the thousandth time her fair hand to his lips. It was white as the snow upon the mountains, yet not so cold—and soft as the rich silken cushions that were strewn about the chamber, upon one of which knelt Giafar before the trembling, agitated princess. "Is it not so?—wouldst thou not welcome death with me?"

"I would—thou knowest that I would!"

"Be mine, then—be mine!" He drew the half-fainting princess closely to his bosom, while she sighed forth, "Speak not of—nay, speak of nothing to me now." Her head drooped helplessly upon his shoulder, and the words, "Wilt thou not leave me?" were murmured faintly in his ear.

The spirit of love has descended into the chamber, and is breathing his intoxicating perfume around them. The air is burdened with it. Their sighs, which but a moment since might have been heard leaving their lips, now come heavily from their bosoms, and fail to struggle through the hallowed atmosphere that surrounds them. Their words—yes, there are yet a few—murmured, muttered, sighed—but so low that Echo cannot answer them, or so sacred that she durst not. * *

* * * * * *
* * * * * * *
* * * * * *

Love, watch over thy votaries—keep far away the noiseless step of mute. Let not the prying eyes of Eastern jealousy trespass upon the sanctity of thy reign; for a fearful price must be paid, should suspicion reach the ear of a jealous monarch that his power has been rivalled, his commands annulled, even by a divinity so potent and universal as thine own. Shield and protect, for thou hast betrayed them. Yet if thou canst not guard, thou canst at least console the victims thou hast made.

END OF VOL. I.

VOLUME II.

GIAFAR AL BARMEKI.

————

CHAPTER I.

But were it not that time their troubler is, All that in this delightful garden grows Should happy be, and have immortal bliss! For here all plenty and all pleasure flows, And sweet love gentle fits among them throws, Without fell rancour or fond jealousy.

Spenser.

Time lingers in the cell of the captive, and hovers on leaden wing over the couch of the unfortunate, lengthening out with heedless cruelty his woes; but he hurries happy lovers with his swiftest flight. How widely seems nature to have erred in this from her usual benevolence to mankind! Strange and unhappy law of our existence! Time creeps with the wretched, and flies only with him who is happy, or him who sleeps.

Never did he speed so fast away as now, with Giafar and his sweet bride. The shining pleasures which ride and glitter upon his wing, shaken from their hold in his swift career, fell showering everywhere around them. Words cannot express the happiness of the prince, during the few months which remained of that delightful summer. He had tasted of love ere this, and deemed himself happy in its enjoyment; yet cold and tame were all past pleasures, compared with those which now delighted him. Had paradise with its bright-eyed damsels been waiting for him, sinful man! he would have turned him from its proffers, and still clung to earth and to his bride. And she, too, his wife; the look of care which had so long clouded her brow vanished. Peace once more took up her long-deserted abode in her bosom, and joy and gladness were again lighting up their smiles in her lovely face. The buoyancy and brightness of youth were again hers, chastened and subdued, though at the same time rendered more enchanting by a shade of trusting dependance which infused a sweet softness into her demeanour. With him she loved once more constantly near her, her every hope and wish seemed gratified. She had shared his anxieties; his sorrows had been hers; the gloom and depression which had shrouded his spirit had cast their dark shadows upon her own; and now the same sunlight of hope and happiness was beaming on them both.

Happy creatures! all nature took a colour from their own feelings, and seemed to be in ecstasy around them. The air they breathed appeared to be changed. The song of the nightingale was more melodious, the fragrance of flowers sweeter, their lute seemed to have gained a string, so much the greater power had it to sooth their feelings. Their favourite poets had a meaning and a charm they had never felt before. A chilling restraint seemed to be removed, which till now had marred the happiness of every interview. Their mutual relations were altered; all was now confidence and perfect oneness. They had not now to fear each other, or themselves; there was nothing to be lost or gained, but must bring the same joy or the same sorrow to them both.

They look back upon the past, as the wearied traveller, from the cool shade of palm trees beneath which he is reposing, glances across the bleak desert he has lately traversed. There he breathed hot vapours which parch the lips and burn upon the cheek; there the seraab enticed him from his way, mocking him with the semblance of a lake, tempting his eager steps, but ever fleeing at his approach. Here the air is balmy; breathing through the trees, it is charged with their fragrance—sighing over the fountain it partakes of its freshness. Here the living waters shrink not as he advances, but proffer to his lips their grateful welcome. Over a waste so desolate and weary, they had passed to this green island in the desert, and lost in its paths, they think not of to-morrow—they think not how short must be their stay. They are like children in a gay garden, culling fruits and flowers, and revelling in the luxuriance of nature's bounty; they look not to the horizon's edge, to see if a storm gathers there; that deep yet indistinct muttering they heed not; they will not know that it is thunder; and when it speaks in tones too plain to be mistaken, they start into each other's arms, yet still mutually linger, until the tempest with its red lightnings and its thunders breaks in fury over their heads, and flight is vain. Allah Bismillah, who controls the elements, may they find shelter!

Days of warmth and sunshine were these, but the cold moon reigned at night, and when its shadows darkened around, they parted; for many as the stars of evening are the eyes that, Arguslike, watch within the precincts of the prince's palace. When they separated it was cheerfully, and to meet upon the morrow; even sleep brought them in its visions again together, and in dreams they rested sweetly, each by the other's side.

But it would be superfluous to dilate on the happiness of the young pair. Many know—all can imagine—who can forget the full blessedness, the unmingled rapture of those who, despite obstacles that seemed insurmountable, are joined at last in love's closest bands. Earth has its joys as well as heaven. Allah be praised, who is the maker of them both! He is merciful, and this world is not so barren, so destitute of delight, as the lessons of many a cynic would persuade.

Many there are in the world, who, when sorrow is present or danger threatens them, fly to Heaven for aid, and from the mouths of its servants seek that consolation, that protection, for which they look elsewhere in vain. Yet when the woe or the peril is past, they cast aside the staff of their support and the shield of their defence. Ingrates and improvident are they; they retain not in their hearts the memory of kindness, and forget that ills crowd thick upon the path of life; that danger passed should be as a beacon to warn us of its future approach, and direct us to a shelter. The piety of Abassa was far different from this. Even in the intoxication of her happiness, she forgot not the good old Ibrahim. In hours of trial, when her bosom had been agitated by passions, strange and stormy, and had been shaken, as is the light tamarind leaf by the desert blast, then had she often sought the presence of the dervis. The leaf is at rest, or if it stirs 'tis but a summer's breeze, fragrant and from the land of spices, that agitates its repose; and now, when peace has returned to her bosom, shall she forget him whose counsel strengthened, and whose kindness consoled her in the time of trial? Not so; or when the sky changes, and winter comes, whither shall she turn?

When the recluse next saw the princess, he was struck with the alteration which had taken place in her appearance. He called to mind the pale and trembling maiden, who at their last interview had looked to his arm for support, and to his wisdom for solace. He now gazed upon her, and saw that her eye was bright, her step elastic, her voice cheerful; and he marvelled at the change. Her sorrows seemed to have vanished, as at the touch of an enchanter's wand vanish the phantoms of his art's creation.

Has she sought in the remote East, where, as many say, flows a fountain rich with the treasures of immortality, which imparts eternal youth to him who happily tastes of its waters?—has she found and drunk of this stream? If the Eastern legend tells true, though the great Iskander (Alexander) sought this spot in vain, yet his vizier,[13] more fortunate than himself, reached its banks, and took "at long draughts" of its divine waters. To those who give credence to the fable, it were easy to explain the mystery of Abassa's returning youth and beauty. But many doubts had the good dervis of the existence of that fountain, and of its power to fill or freshen this once-mingled cup of mortality. He well knew, however, of that peace of mind which religion can impart, of that fortitude and patience with which soothing friendship can strengthen the sorrowing bosom. He called to mind his last interview with the princess, when his lips dropped with the honey of wisdom, and when he poured the balm of consolation into her wounded soul, and the enigma seemed explained. He gazed with delight upon her countenance, radiant as it was with happiness, and in the pride of his heart he would have spoken to her in words of approbation and encouragement—but the blushes of the princess undeceived him. The riddle was read, and the sage thoughtful and silent.

But one thing was wanting to complete their happiness. This was the friendship of the calif; and as if Heaven meant to grant their utmost wishes, the Commander of the Faithful returned from Raccah, and received them again into favour. The strange scene that had occurred on the evening of his daughter's nuptials seemed entirely effaced from his remembrance; its traces were no longer visible in the countenance or demeanour of the calif; all was buried in silence, if not in oblivion. Giafar, who was, even in the Eastern acceptation of the word, the faithful friend as well as servant of his master, had looked upon the estrangement of his affection as one of the greatest evils that could befall him. These evidences, therefore, of the calif's returning love, failed not to fill his bosom with delight. If at times he distrusted the unvarying calmness that was visible in his master's countenance, fearing lest it were a mask covering dark suspicion, yet oftener he banished all uneasiness from his mind, and gave himself up without reserve to the full anticipation of returning fortune.

Nor was the happiness of the princess less than Giafar's, to find her father again kind. She loved him with an affection, only to be surpassed by that which she felt towards her husband; and now, what could she ask from Heaven? All she wished was hers. It is true, the presence of Haroun placed upon them a restraint, at times, irksome and hard to be endured. Great vigilance and self-control were needed lest some sudden impulse, some unwary yet most natural display of tenderness should disclose to the calif all that it was most necessary to conceal. Yet it may be questioned, if this very constraint, which felt at times like a chain of iron upon them, did not heighten and render more delicious their hours of retirement.

Such is man! Pleasure that is debarred him, or that flies from his pursuit, he ever values the most highly. The enchanted castle and dames there imprisoned appear rich and beautiful only to the knight without, who must win them from the arms of danger. When the barriers which excluded him are surmounted by his valour, bleak walls and withered hags alone remain, of all the charms that enticed him to the perilous deed.

The report of the calif's reconciliation to his children went abroad throughout Bagdad; and the sight of his well-known barge, as it passed to and fro upon the river, stopping with unvarying regularity at the prince's villa, confirmed the rumour. Giafar's abode was now the frequent scene of splendour and festivity. His brightly lighted gardens shone afar. Charming voices and instruments of music threw their tones across the waters, sounding upon the ears of the envious and disappointed, as the angels' song in paradise, when heard by those malignant fiends who are debarred for ever from its enjoyment. Again he was sought, again courted. Coming together as they are wont, fortune and the world's favour again revisited his dwelling.

Moments thus passing, what should disturb them in the possession of such enjoyment? Nothing, unless some thought of the future should be the unwelcome intruder. But they sought not to know its secrets. Surrounded by pleasure, as with the drapery of a curtain, they wisely abstained from looking beyond its folds. Fortune, like a kind host, has sweetly lodged them in the fairest chamber of nature's spacious caravansary. Why should they peer through the closed lattice, or question the mute hours that wait upon them, if their journey on the morrow will be rough or no? Repose, repose, even till the trumpet's* sound shall rouse the travellers to their onward way.

[*A trumpet usually sounds at daybreak to arouse the caravan for its journey.]

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CHAPTER II.

E'en so my sun one early mom did shine, With all triumphant splendour on my brow; But out! alack! he was hut one hour mine, The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now; Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; Suns of the world may stain, when Heaven's sun staineth.

Shakspeare.

Sighs are heard in the harem, and bright eyes are looking in vain for him who is the sun of their narrow world. Fair forms, each of which would grace a throne, are walking disconsolately through latticed galleries, or adown the shaded avenues that wind through those extensive grounds. They meet, perchance, and smile at each other's grief, though weeping for their own. All is one universal sorrow. The bower of love is faded, and the tears of its beautiful guardians water its withered roses, though they fail to freshen or revive them. But 'tis soon over. Except in a few souls sensitive and peculiarly constituted, love unreturned is of brief duration. Amusements, or the more serious occupations of life, soon usurp that place in the bosom which, a while gone, seemed destined to be occupied by ceaseless and powerful passion. Emulation in dress and jewels, the care of singing birds, music and the bath, soon become the pleasures of these beautiful prisoners. Their faces are again like the day, and their eyes tearless.

Stay! there is one who yet weeps, who cannot so soon forget him she has lately learned to love. 'Tis a sweet girl from the vales of Khorasan.

The poverty or avarice of her parents had rendered Khatoun a slave, and fortune gave her a kind master in Prince Giafar. Fifteen warm summers had ripened the wild flower, when in the perfection of her loveliness, she was transplanted into the garden of the prince. She had been reared in the shade, and had never enjoyed that culture which is only to be acquired by an intercourse with polished and artificial society. She had not been taught either to control or conceal her emotions, nor when passion swelled her bosom to wear a face of calmness. A child of nature, tender, sensitive, and variable, she was now wrapped in an ecstasy of delight, and now trembled and wept like a very infant, when misfortune or its dark forebodings came upon her.

When she first entered the palace of Giafar, no inmate of that abode was happier than Khatoun. She had left and regretted no humble lover in her own land, whose image might follow her to these new scenes of her existence, to trouble the repose which for a long time she here enjoyed. Separation from her parents she had been taught from childhood to expect, and so long and so often had she anticipated that event, that its occurrence formed no new era in her life or feelings, from whence she might date the commencement of joys or sorrows. Splendour of dress, the attendance and flattery of slaves, with all the various luxuries which were here at her disposal, contributed in no small degree to banish from her mind the thoughts of her old home. Besides these, in the instructions of the various masters who were appointed to superintend her education, she found an unvaried source of delight. A new world was here opened to her view, one of poetry, music, and literature, and she improved with avidity those advantages which the liberality and pride of the prince placed within the reach of every inmate of the zenana. Alas! that so fair a sky should e'er be o'ercast, that so bright a sun should be obscured by foul vapours that rise reeking from the unhallowed soil of human passions!

When Giafar fled from the enchantment of the princess's presence, worn by care, and harassed by a perpetual conflict between love and fear, he sought among the wit and beauty of his harem to divert his thoughts, for a time at least, from the contemplation of loveliness which might not be his, but at great peril. He could not forget Abassa for a moment, yet he hoped that the fascinations which here surrounded him, like the harp of the minstrel, might sooth the demon Disappointment, if it could not expel him from his bosom. Even in this expectation, however reasonable it may seem, he was deceived. The image of his wife was everywhere before him; soon tired of all the world, he sought again her dear but dangerous society.

For a short period, Khatoun was his favourite. Her simplicity and inexperience interested him; her rapid progress in various accomplishments charmed and delighted him. He himself taught her upon the lute, and the lessons which she learned from him were ever the best remembered. He taught her to love too—that she never forgot. How could she resist his accomplishments—his talents? She had dreamed of such a lover; but to find him hers was a consummation of her wishes, unexpected, irresistible. She yielded to the charm, and surrendered her soul to the current of impetuous love. 'Twas but a leaf upon its eddying surface.

Giafar knew not the flame he was enkindling. He knew not that love, which visited his withered heart as drops of rain fall upon the arid desert, leaving it barren as before, was shedding its influence upon her fresh young bosom, like a shower upon an enclosed garden, and therein were springing up wild hopes, strange fears, and a thick succession of jealousies, griefs, and bitter disappointments. Had he known this, had he been aware of the existence of that burning love and anxiety which he was awaking in her soul, he would have paused, he would have hesitated, ere for his idle and transient pleasure, he destined a maiden so innocent to a life of sorrow. But he thought not of it. He stooped heedlessly to the violet, as he crossed the garden; but its sweetness is forgotten now that he has plucked the rose, and he remembers not that his lips have left upon the humble flower an impress that is blighting all its beauties.

"What can keep him from me?" murmured the sad girl. "Why did he ever come to me, if he meant to leave me thus? Ah! there is no happiness for a slave," she added, dejectedly. "If I might die—yes, I should be at peace in the grave—there, at least, I should forget him. But he will come, I am sure he will—and then he will be mine again." She smiled at the thought, and turned to look into her mirror. It reflected faithfully her beauty, and her full bosom heaved with hope as she gazed. "Yes, he may be mine again. There! there!" she continued, as she arranged her ornaments, and added jewel after jewel to her apparel, "is not that beautiful? But he values not jewels nor dress; foolish creature that I am, he has told me so a thousand times. Off! off!" she said, and she would have divested her person of the ornaments, but her eye caught again for a moment her mirrored beauty, and she desisted, adding, "yet no!—let them remain, for they are beautiful." She paused a few moments, and then continued, "He may be mine again. He may—yet I have waited long, till my bosom is weary with sighing for him. I cannot help it. I shall always think upon him while this poor brain can think—'twill not be long, I fear, unless I see him soon. Yon bird is ever singing," she continued, as the wild warbling of a feathered favourite interrupted her sad musings; "I cannot bear that note—it mocks my misery.

Yet 'tis alone, it has no mate, poor thing! how can it be so happy?"

She approached, and threw a silken scarf over the cage. When his prison was thus darkened, the little warbler, after a few wavering notes, was silent.

"Yet once," she continued, "I could listen to that song for ever. I have changed since then—ah me! how I have changed." Tears were coursing fast down her cheeks. She dashed them away, as the west wind shakes the dew from the red leaves of the rose, and having taken her lute, sang the following verses:—

"I have told my burning heart a hundred times to quench in the waters of forgetfulness the fires that consume it.

"It listens not to my words, but courts still the winds which increase its flame.

"Love's thousand torments will at last reduce it to ashes."

The words seemed to come from her very soul. When she had concluded her song, she placed her hand beneath her bosom, there where the pulsations of the heart may easiest be felt, as if to assure herself that the wearied organ had not yet ceased to beat. No, it was still busy, but its hurried and tumultuous motion threatened soon to impair its energies, unless some balm were found that might heal the griefs which were wearing upon her spirits.

"Ravisher of hearts!" she exclaimed, apostrophizing thus tenderly the absent prince—"ravisher of hearts! whither hast thou fled? Into what ears are thy lips now whispering? Whom dost thou now render happy? Yet I can bear it for a while, if he will but return at last. I will not even complain, unless he leaves me for ever. Perhaps 'tis his princess keeps him from me; yes, it must be so. They tell me she is very beautiful. How can I expect him to love me?—me! He should not then have told me that he did. I was happy," continued the fond girl, with a sigh, "very happy, until he came and spoke to me of beauty and love; yes, and then I remember some bright, bright days. Allah help me! I speak of them as past—yes, they have passed away, and all is now night around me. Yet have I been to blame? Now that I know his falsehood, could I resist him? How, then, could I keep my heart when he first asked it of me? when he gave me for it, as he said, his own. Yet I should have known it could not last. Cruel one!" she exclaimed, in the words of a favourite song, "whene'er I write thy name, I will write false, unkind, faithless!" Bitter grief now overwhelmed her, and sunk in despondency, she wept profusely and in silence.

But tears are of no avail. Time passes. The mild moon has completed her course, and, as though wearied with looking upon the sorrows of Khatoun, has left the heavens. Still Giafar comes not. Despair and rage now mingle themselves with regretting love, and throng successively upon her bosom, tossing it into a tempest. If a ray of hope shone upon her, it was transient as the lightning's flash, and seemed to render more apparent the gloom with which she was surrounded. Often did she weep, and walk her chamber distractedly; often did she ponder upon the means to bring back the truant. A butterfly, a bird, a jewel, were all she had ever contended for before, but now a heart was the prize, and she would not tamely surrender it. Talismans are sought, charms woven, and all species of enchantment are put in requisition, that have power to recall a wandering lover. 'Tis in vain. The more potent spell of beauty and of love is chaining Giafar fast by the side of the Princess Abassa.

Such is life! Joys and sorrows follow each other in constant and ever-varying succession. The sun of happiness, though it always shines, cannot at once enlighten this ever-revolving orb, but while it here tinges it with the bright hues of day, there the night of sorrow darkens upon its surface. Peace, visiting the unfortunate, leaves the happy, and all are in their turn miserable. So flowers drop one by one in the garden. "While the budding rose puts freshly forth its beauties, its companions, whose leaves were but now fully expanded, have in a moment withered; we see them already scattered in the dust." Life and beauty, ever departing, hover ever upon the flowers, and though they often change their resting place, still dwell always within the bower.

————

CHAPTER III.

"We were too happy to be so long; We were so blest in our lonely bower; But the storm hangs over the sunniest hour, And the serpent follows the sweetest song."

The close of summer is at hand. Giafar and Abassa stand by the river's edge, upon the marble steps which descend into its bosom. They are watching the calif's barge, which has just departed. Its way is slow, for the rapid waters of the river oppose its course; yet the nervous arms of half a score of slaves overcome the fury of the stream, and gradually propel the boat against the current. They shun the full tide of the river, and steal close along the shore, their oars at times crashing amid the reeds that grow along its margin. Now they proceed with ease and celerity, as they strike into some eddy that is favourable to their progress, and now labour on with imperceptible motion, as they head round some jutting point by which the river rushes with straightened and impetuous current.

"He is gone!" broke from the lips of both simultaneously. "That point has hid him from our sight," added the prince. The distance between them soon diminishes, and Giafar is now close at the princess's side. They look again to see if the calif is indeed beyond their view, and satisfied of this, the cold and indifferent demeanour which they have worn during Haroun's presence is laid aside. Blithely together they ascend from the water's edge, and Giafar's arm supports the person of the princess. Upon the topmost step they again turn, and look with care along the course of the stream. No object meets their eyes. They now dismiss their fears, and walk slowly among the spreading trees. They stop where the roses cluster thickly, and reposing under the shade of curtained flowers, discourse sweetly together.

"How kind is my father now," said the princess. "All that jealousy and distrust with which he formerly looked upon us is banished from his bosom."

"It may be so," replied the prince; "yet I put not faith in the seeming of man's countenance. I know the craft of the calif, and the ready art with which he can conceal the most deadly designs under an exterior of mildness."

"Your suspicions are unjust," said the princess. "I am sure they are unjust. All traces of his anger have vanished. He seems as kind, nay, kinder than ever."

"Kinder than ever!" said the prince. "You have noted that then? So has it seemed to me, although I knew not but that anxiety might, in some degree, have given rise to my suspicions. When, even in his mildest moments, was your father free from bursts of passion? yet weeks have passed away of late, and not a frown has ruffled his brow; an expression of unvarying, and, as I fear, assumed mildness, is always upon his countenance. Augurs this well? Believe me, no! I like not this unaccustomed kindness. Trust me, my life, thy father nourishes suspicions which, if confirmed, will not fail to destroy us. I would not wrong him even in mine own thoughts; still less would I disquiet your bosom by idle and ill-founded fears; but to guard against danger, is it not most necessary to be aware of its approach? I have crossed the desert when the simoom has been at hand, yet to the careless traveller no tokens could be seen of its approach. Not the slightest breeze, forerunning that dread blast, disturbed the lurid and murky air. Nature seemed motionless. The parched earth endured, without a struggle, all the cruelty that the fierce tyrant of the sky could inflict upon her. At these signs I have turned my horse's head towards a shelter, for I knew full well that the fatal tempest was near. Had I despised these warnings, and tarried until the angry wind had waked the waste from its sleep, and the earth in despair had shaken the desert from her bosom as though she would hurl its mountains of eddying sand into the face of her pitiless tormentor—had I waited for this, my bones would ere now have been whitening the plain."

"I still think, Giafar, that the danger of which you speak exists but in your own fears; yet, grant that it were at hand, what could we do that might avert it?"

"Much, in truth," replied the prince. "Let us beware of ourselves, let us watch with care over our own actions, lest, in some unguarded moment, we should betray that—" The sentence was interrupted and concluded by a kiss, yet it seemed intelligible to the princess, for she coloured slightly, and replied, "Have we not done this? What has occurred, either in word or look, that might strengthen my father in his anger?"

"Nothing, my life, in any manner," said the prince; "yet still how hard is it—I speak but for myself, when I say it—how hard is it to control those feelings which are swelling in the bosom. What resolution, what firmness, does it not require to repress, in the calif's presence, those acts of tenderness and of love, that would render but too plain our disobedience to his commands. Did the most ravishing music fall upon mine ear, my countenance should evince no tokens of pleasure: I could seem insensible to rare perfumes, though their sweet fragrance were steeping my senses in delight. I could view unmoved, even when worn with famine, a banquet of delicious viands, as though I had just risen, sated with its enjoyment. All these were easy of performance: as trials of my self-control I should smile at them. But, dearest, 'tis no slight task to seem unmoved when with thee. When we look together upon some beautiful object, as we did upon that rich emerald to-day, how hard is it to prevent my cheek from pressing close to thine? when I stand by thy side I am tempted, almost irresistibly, to clasp thee to my bosom, even while thy frowning father looks in anger upon us. Yet, it is possible—it may be done," he added, pressing his hands forcibly over his eyes, as though by that action he could assist the resolution which he felt to waver at the bare thought of the trial. "But we will talk no longer of it," he continued, after a short silence; "let us enjoy the happiness that we have, without thinking upon the chances which may deprive us of it. It is idle, it is useless, to look at the chain that is thrown over us. Let us conceal it with roses. And after all, the stealth and secrecy which hide our love from all eyes, are to me no abatement of its charm; nay, they heighten, and render it more enchanting. What treasure do we more value than one which every moment may be snatched from our possession?"

"I grieve to hear you speak thus, Giafar," replied the princess, reproachfully. "I could almost weep to think that the love which you evince for me if owing in any degree to the difficulties which have opposed it. Can it be? If they were removed, if all things smiled upon us, would your love in aught diminish? If so, I pray Allah for the frowns of my father as I would for a blessing most dear!"

"Talk not thus," interrupted the prince, impatiently. "Think not thus of my affection. Thou esteemest it as a light thing, if thou canst say this.

Wert thou an angel, far above my reach or my hopes, I would worship and adore thee; and wert thou a slave, bought with my gold (it is profanity to think it), yet wert thou subject to my slightest wishes, not the less would my heart, my happiness, be in thy hands. No time nor change can diminish my love. Yet our stolen interviews are sweeter to me thus, and the happiness that I possess in thee is more enchanting, since I hold it at such peril."

"Man," replied Abassa, "runs his round of pleasures, and wearied of them all, like the spoiled child, desires only that which is forbidden him. Why should opposition and difficulty be ever the chief charms for him? In war, the hazard of the attempt may lure, more than the value of the prize—when glory is the mistress she is to be wooed thus—must it be so in love?"

"Oh! there is a pleasure to the bold spirit, to tread upon the verge of danger, to walk safely and firmly where the trembling limbs of his fellow-men would refuse to support them; there is a triumph in it and a pride, such as the eagle feels, methinks, when be soars upward to the sun, and gazes on him as no other bird would dare. Feelings like these mingle themselves even with our love."

"It is not so with woman," replied the princess. "She may be true in danger, but she ever wishes it far away. For me, I would enjoy my happiness in peace, nay, even in obscurity."

"Thou speakest over confidently, my life," returned the prince. "Thy reason, thine experience, cannot teach thee this; thou listenest to thy heart alone—it may deceive thee. Were we away in some safe retreat where the winds of fortune could not blow upon us, and whence our happiness could no more escape, wouldst thou then love me as thou now dost? wouldst thou not wish, at times, for these very fears, these trials which now surround us, that they might vary the dull sameness of quiet and unalarmed affection?"

"Thy words are strange, Giafar," replied the princess. "I should not—oh, no! how canst thou think thus? Love in retirement, and with thee, would compose my highest happiness, and thy presence supply the loss of all the world."

Their lips met, and he would have pressed her more closely to his bosom, had not a slight movement amid the trelliswork of flowers which surrounded them made him pause. Giafar's countenance, however, did not change, neither did he turn his eye to the direction from whence the sound came. He seemed not to notice the interruption; and a warning glance admonished the princess to be equally prudent. For a time they continued their gay and delightful discourse; he withdrew not his arm which he had passed around the princess's waist, and she, although trembling with fear, shrank not from his embrace; both seemed equally and entirely unaware of the presence of an intruder. After a few moments, however, they arose, and proceeded slowly together towards their favourite kiosk.

While walking thither, the prince had leisure to conjecture rapidly as to the nature and cause of the intrusion upon their privacy, and also to adopt some method by which he might promptly, and with certainty, free himself from the impending danger. Some one had set an espial upon them. Who could it be, and who was the traitor that had dared to undertake so dangerous an office? None but his own household slaves ever entered this garden, and the few who, since his marriage, had been employed in the various duties within its walls, were chosen for their tried fidelity. Besides, they were never absent from the palace, and could hold no communication with any who might wish to employ them as instruments of their master's ruin. "Yet," thought the prince, "a stranger would hardly venture hither; unacquainted with the grounds and the strict regulations with which they are kept, such temerity were certain to be punished with death." But whatever doubts he had as to the instrument, he had few as to the origin of the treachery. Upon this point all his suspicions were directed to the Commander of the Faithful. He could not mistake. No one but he would have dared thus to intrude upon his domestic privacy, or have ventured upon an expedient so dangerous for accomplishing this purpose.

They were now at the kiosk. As they ascended the steps leading to their favourite apartment, Giafar pressed the hand of the princess encouragingly, and whispered, "Compose thyself, dearest.

Let no word or look escape thee, which may betray thy fears. Sing, laugh, and be gay, as thou art wont. Our safety may depend upon thy firmness."

They entered. Abassa seated herself upon the rich carpet, while the prince, with an affectation of gallantry, handed her various sweetmeats and fruits from a low table, serving them upon one knee, after the manner of a slave. Each time that he presented her with a dish of fruit, or a bowl of sherbet, he kissed her hand with great tenderness, as also when they were returned to him after she had partaken of their contents.

When they had finished a light repast, the princess, at Giafar's request, sang a few verses to her lute, which were followed on the part of the prince by a profusion of thanks and applause. He then took the lute from her hand, and after striking a few preparatory chords, complained that the instrument was false, and under the pretence of seeking one better attuned, left the chamber and entered an adjoining apartment.

He opened the lattice in haste, and holding fast his scimitar, lest in alighting its clash should betray him, swung lightly to the ground. He then proceeded around the kiosk, and ascended the balustrade on the opposite side of the building.

It would be difficult to say whether surprise or indignation predominated in the prince's bosom, when, upon advancing, he perceived one of his own and most trusty slaves in the act of looking through the lattice which opened upon his private retreat. It may be that astonishment first took possession of his soul, but it soon gave place to fierce and uncontrollable anger. His eyes flashed fire, and the blood mounted into his forehead. He approached noiselessly, for he had put off his sandals ere ascending the steps, and when within reach of the culprit drew his scimitar. The sound of the weapon in starting from its sheath caused the wretch to turn. Horror was depicted upon his countenance when he found himself in the presence of his angry master; he would have entreated, his lips had parted, but no sound issued from them. The arm of the prince descended quickly, and ere a word was uttered, the shining steel had encircled his neck. The blade was sharp and trenchant, and dexterously applied upon neck of the unhappy man, for the arm that wielded it was well accustomed to the work, and a wild whirlwind of fierce passions had lent to it a strength even greater than its own. Yet, for a brief moment, the blow seemed to have failed of its effect, and Giafar read in the convulsed and still upright countenance of the slave, all that despair and agony can imprint upon human features. One instant, and the tall form of the hapless wretch stood erect before the flashing eye of his master, the head[14] still resting as in life upon his shoulders; the next, a thrill, a shudder, a fearful spasm, passed across that ghastly face, and the slave fell heavily to the floor; the head then parting from the shoulders, rolled to the very feet of the young prince, while from the shorn and palpitating trunk the dark blood spouted forth in streams, staining with its crimson those walls which had been so long held sacred to love and pleasure.

"So, Hassan, is it thou!" said the prince, as he looked down upon the face of the dead slave, which he had turned upward with the point of his scimitar. Life had not yet entirely deserted the head, and its features seemed to shrink at the frown of Giafar. This emotion exhausted the last remains of fleeting vitality, and death settled quickly upon the countenance, binding its lineaments in fixed and awful rigidity.

"The drama has commenced," continued the prince. "Where will it end, and what victims are yet to fall? Thou art the first, and justly so. Who can have tempted thee to this? Can gold have bribed thee to betray thy master? I cannot credit it. An hour ago I would have deemed my life as safe with thee as in the hands of a brother. Yet wherefore should I wonder? Am not I a traitor? is not my plighted word broken? is not the pledge to my master forfeited, and am not I trembling even this instant lest vengeance overtake me? Yet have I not some excuse for my fault? If I have wandered, are not the eyes bright and the smiles sweet that have lured me from my path? and by this right hand, I would so wander again to be so repaid."

After this soliloquy, Giafar stooped to wipe his scimitar upon the garments of the dead slave, and having returned it to its sheath, proceeded to search his person for some token which might reveal the author of the treason. In his bosom he found a purse containing a few sequins, together with some ornaments which appeared to have been the property of a female. Among them he discovered a turquoise ring. As though he had gazed upon a basilisk, his looks for a few moments became fixed upon the jewel. He knew it. It had been his own gift. He started hastily to his feet, his countenance darkened, and biting his lips in anger, he exclaimed,

"In mine own harem! Traitress! but she shall dearly rue her falsehood. By the right hand of the Prophet! she shall pay for it with her life. Yet can she have stooped so low?" he continued, after a momentary silence; "can she have descended thus to the vilest slave's affection? Yes, 'tis plain! 'tis plain! It was not gold that tempted Hassan from his duty. It was not these jewels. No! no! I see it now. I thought a richer treasure, one more enticing, must have lured him to this treachery. I can almost forgive him. But that she, whom I esteemed so innocent and pure, whom I have kindly treated and favoured, nay, almost loved, to dishonour me! and with a slave! She shall die!" he exclaimed, stamping with his foot in fury—"she shall die ere morning dawns!"

Giafar was unable to regain immediately that composure with which he wished to appear before the princess, for his bosom was rent by passion. He descended from the balcony into the garden, and lingering a while in the open air, strove to repress his agitation. When he had acquired some degree of calmness, he again sought the presence of his wife.

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CHAPTER IV.

This is above all strangeness!

Lear.

The princess had been awaiting his return with an anxiety that she could ill subdue; and as his stay was more and more prolonged, her suspense became almost insupportable. When, however, Giafar entered with a pale and frowning countenance, when she saw stains of blood upon his caftan, and upon his hands, her fears overcame her. She had sufficient strength to throw herself into his arms, but the words which she would have framed died away upon her lips. Even in the agitation of his bosom, torn as it was by anger, jealousy, and wounded pride, Giafar found words of comfort for her. "Fear not! dearest life," he said; "all has gone well. The danger is past."

"What means this?" exclaimed Abassa, when she could find words, pointing as she spoke to the blood upon his garments. "What hast thou done?"

"Done!" replied the prince, with difficulty suppressing his anger—" 'tis nothing. I have chastised a prying slave—believe me! nothing more."

"I fear thou hast been rash in this, Giafar—thou art over hasty in thine anger."

"Hasty!" replied the prince, setting his teeth firmly together; "think not so. Had he a hundred lives, they had all been forfeited. Yet I should have punished them together."

"Whom?" inquired Abassa.

"The traitor and the traitress, both by the same ignoble death, 'Twas ill done, to defile my scimitar with blood so base."

"Whom dost thou speak of?" interrupted the princess—"comes not this danger from my father?"

"No, the falsehood exists in mine own palace, within the walls of my very harem. I meant not to tell thee of it, for it concerns that which I would myself forget, and which may—yet it cannot—disturb and displease thee." Giafar then related to the princess his discovery of Hassan's treachery, and the token by which he traced the origin of his unfaithfulness to a once favourite inmate of the harem. He spoke with some hesitation of his transient interest in the young Khatoun, but recounted more fully her apparent devotion, innocence, and simplicity; then, with compressed lip and bent brow, he imparted to her his suspicions, that through jealousy and desire of revenge she had betrayed his honour to a slave, and expressed his firm determination to punish her guilt with death, and ended by pointing with his finger significantly to the Tigris.

The countenance of the princess reddened for a moment as she listened, but became deadly pale again, as this mute threat escaped the prince. "Oh! be not guilty of such cruelty!" she exclaimed.

"She once loved thee, thou sayst—how then canst thou doom her so easily to the grave?"

"She will well deserve her fate," hastily replied the prince; "has she not forgotten her own honour, and tarnished mine? Besides, we walk upon the edge of a precipice, and she must not live, if in the possession of a secret which may betray us both to destruction. We know not how often her paramour may have watched our retirement. Yes! she must die!"

"What! if it be unjust?" exclaimed Abassa, "if she be not guilty? And how knowest thou that she is so? Thou hast no proof of her falsehood—that ring—nay, 'tis none. He may have stolen it from her, or it may have been the price of some service which he might rightfully render."

"What! mine own gift," answered the prince—"and the reward of ordinary duty which, as a slave of the harem, he was bound to perform at her bidding! Believe it not. She is guilty, and she shall die—secretly, speedily, ere her babbling tongue can betray us. Be not thus moved! Have I not the right? Does she not justly deserve death?"

"She does, if guilty," replied Abassa; "but not by your hand. She should die under the sentence of the law, not condemned by thee—at once her judge and her accuser—executed, too, in secret and in silence."

"By Heaven!" exclaimed the prince, interrupting her, "this is unmeasured folly. It exceeds belief that thou shouldst counsel me to it. What!

shall I not punish in mine own right those who thus offend? Must I trumpet to the world that dishonour which the walls of a prison, or the grave might conceal? I cannot but smile at the thought. Justly, deeply offended, and yet not the power to punish the very dependants of my house, without calling all the world to witness the justice, or rather, if it must be spoken, the deep die of the disgrace! To afford her, too, an opportunity to accuse me to the calif of a fault that might destroy us both,"

"But may not her death, even if secret, betray us? Will not my father's suspicions be awakened if he should hear of her fate? And may he not? Remember, Giafar, how often, as vizier to the calif, thou hast brought to light crimes as well hidden as this could be. If thy brother's vigilance should slumber, yet Abou Youssouf, the chief magistrate of the city, will not pass by thy mansion in his watchfulness. Reflect—do nothing rashly—do nothing which may endanger our happiness, our lives—but above all, do nothing unjustly!"

"I will not, believe me, dearest," was the reply of the prince. Then, after musing some moments, he added, "Thou art right—to punish her as she deserves might cause inquiry which it would be difficult to answer. Yet she must not betray us. In seclusion from the world she shall have full leisure to repent her guilt, and if strictly guarded, her silence will be as sure as though death had set his icy seal upon her lips. 'Tis a merciful part, too, though she deserves it not. Yes! solitude, stern and cruel—yet not to her, the ingrate, the traitress! No! the heaviest chains were mercy to one so guilty. But come, let us seek the palace. I have a task yet to perform ere morning, and the night is well advanced."

"She shall not die then, thou wilt promise me?" said Abassa.

"Believe me, she shall not."

They walked slowly together to the palace. There leaving the princess, Giafar sought the apartment of the slaves, and having beckoned one of them to follow him, returned to the private garden. "Mahmoud, is it thou?" he said, as the slave approached.

The slave bowed low, in token of assent.

"Draw near. Thou hast been long in mine household. Canst thou be faithful?"

The slave bowed his head again, and placed his hand upon his bosom.

"Go, get thee tools, and dig, with secrecy and speed, a grave by the southern wall: then hie to the kiosk, where thou wilt find the body of a beheaded slave, which, at midnight, thou must bury. Thou needst not shroud nor wash it; it befits not the burial of a traitor. He has died the death of a faithless hound. Yet lay him with his right side towards the holy city, as thou wouldst wish for thyself, Mahmoud. Who will assist thee in the task? Choose some one for whose fidelity thou wilt answer with thy head." The slave hesitated, and Giafar immediately added, "Nay, I will myself go with thee. Impart this business to no one. I will await thee here at midnight. Speak not a word—a single torch will give us light enough."

The slave cast his eyes upward to the moon, which was shining brightly above them.

"True, true!" replied the prince to this silent suggestion of the slave, "its light will suffice. Be secret, Mahmoud—be faithful. I have punished treachery ere this to-night."

At the hour of midnight Giafar went to the place appointed. He found the slave awaiting his coming. Not a word was exchanged, and Mahmoud slowly followed the prince to the kiosk. The full moon was holding its silent course through a cloudless sky, lighting up a lovely oriental landscape around them. It shone brightly upon the quiet river, which wound like a silver riband through the trees upon their right, and gilded with its soft beams the lofty domes and tall minarets of the adjacent city, that lay stretched like a slumbering giant upon its banks. In its mild lustre the marble pillars and steps of that beautiful pavilion were revealed with the utmost clearness, and even the most minute objects were rendered distinctly visible. Upon ascending the balcony, to the astonishment of Giafar, the body was nowhere to be seen. There were the walls and pavement yet wet with the blood of the guilty Hassan, but the dead slave was no longer there.

"Ya Mohammed!" exclaimed the startled prince, "have I dreamed this deed? that quick blow! that ghastly form! that headless trunk! By the light of heaven, I should think so!" he continued, looking around in wonder, "but for these red tokens of its reality. Ha!" and his eye flashed quickly upon the wondering Mahmoud, "hast thou prated, slave? or was it thou that removed the carcass?"

"I have seen no one," replied the affrighted Mahmoud, placing his forehead upon the pavement before the prince's feet. "I have spoken with no one since I received thine order; neither has thy slave removed the body."

"Arise, then! search carefully around—see if thou canst discover the print of feet, or aught which may disclose the author of this wonder. If it be the work of mortal, some signs may be discerned of human agency." They scanned the pavement and steps with care, and looked even to the water's edge for some track of human footsteps. It was in vain. Naught could they discover which might throw light upon the disappearance of the body. After searching for some time, unsuccessfully, Giafar ordered Mahmoud to fill up the grave which he had dug, and having enjoined upon him silence as to the occurrence of the night, turned his steps musingly towards the palace.

"Treason upon treason! wonder upon wonder!" he muttered to himself, as he entered his chamber. "My trustiest slave betrays me—the fairest and fondest of my harem dishonours me—the very spirits of the air, genii unseen, seem combining to work my ruin. But into the hands of the Merciful One do I resign myself!"

Much pondering in nowise diminished the wonder of Giafar at an event so strange. All was inexplicable mystery; and time, in passing, afforded no clue to its solution. Many within the walls of the palace noted the sudden disappearance of Hassan, but in the deportment of no one was seen aught to arouse suspicion, as to the instruments of the secret removal of his body. To the watchful eye of the prince nothing was betrayed that served to lessen his astonishment or perplexity.

The inmates of the harem have also lost a companion. The place of Khatoun is vacant. She comes no more to pluck the bright flowers—to revel in the bath—to bring in sportive rivalry her favourite birds to outvie those of her companions. She listens no more with them when tales of love or wonder are read by the sweet-voiced slaves. Her joyous tones are no longer heard echoing through those gay chambers, or swelling in sad harmony above the chords of her feebly sounded lute. Where is she? They ask each other, where? They look up to the highest and gloomiest towers of the palace, seeking some token that she is still in life. They think often of her as they thread the mazes of the garden, fearful lest they may tread upon her tomb. They hang inquiringly over the river's brink, gazing with awe into its depths; for there, they whisper to each other, may be her grave. But the stream is voiceless; or if it murmurs, it is full sadly. It seems a dirge that rises from its waves. The thoughts of a fearful, secret fate trouble their fancies, and they weep, they tremble, and resolve. Love, they whisper to their hearts, though it may make a paradise of earth, cannot burn beneath the waves. The sullen stream runs swiftly to the ocean, unruffled by the sigh of beauty, though it be her last; the heaving of the fairest bosom creates not a ripple in those waters, which hold it a prisoner within their depths.

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CHAPTER V.

The moment comes— Collect each thought, each power, for one brief straggle. Happiness and life—all—all depends upon it!

Old Play.

Summer passed away, and returning winter found the prince and princess again in Bagdad. The occurrences related in the preceding chapter had been almost forgotten; no clue had been found to the disappearance of Hassan's body, and the anxiety of the prince gradually diminished, when, as the months rolled by, he saw no evils falling, or threatening to fall upon them, as results of that strange event. The danger to which they had been exposed by the jealousy of Khatoun, and the treachery of her accomplice, had been averted by his promptness. All means that might lead to the discovery of their disobedience seem removed, and careful of their happiness, though they surrender themselves to joy and love, yet it is with a more prudent and constrained affection. They tremble as they look back upon the precipice which they have so narrowly escaped; they still walk along its brink—they cannot leave the danger—yet their steps are more wary and circumspect, for prudence, hand in hand with love (rare union), is guiding them upon their way.

In this security, however, the prince is not always at his ease; at times an undefinable sense of dread weighs upon his soul. Something—he knows not what—a vague foreboding, a sound, a vision, tells him that misfortune is at hand. Yet 'tis but rarely that his mind is thus affected; and even when most deeply influenced by his fears, a look, a smile from her dispels his gloom. So the sun drives along the mists of the morning, and the shadows that darken successively upon the plain, proclaim his power and his brightness as they pass. He has not made his wife a partner in his anxiety. She is ignorant of the disappearance of the dead slave—the origin—the cause of all his fears. Still she is sad. Her step is languid; her eye sunken. Her cheek loses daily a portion of its colour, and Care is marking with his finger his traces upon her sweet face. She seems like one whose bosom is oppressed with some cause for melancholy—secret, deep, hidden. Yet can this be? Giafar is often happy when she is most sad; and what cloud can darken upon her soul, and not enwrap him in the selfsame gloom? Or is it the very perfection and poignancy of her happiness which is wearing thus upon her frame, as an Indian sabre is said from the excellence of its temper to eat the scabbard which encloses it? Ah! there is a secret—a little secret—'tis told in a word, a breath, a look, and is understood as soon. 'Tis known! Giafar glances for an instant at her beloved form, and then clasps her tenderly to his bosom, while he presses upon her lips a kiss—a kiss, in richness and in luxury unequalled, save by the first which he imprinted upon her virgin lips.

"It is so, then?" he said. "I have been strangely blind," and again he repeated his caresses. "Yet be not sad, my life. Droop not—yield not to sorrow at its mere menace. Wait, ere thou grievest, until it comes upon us."

"How selfish am I!" she replied. "Now that you participate in my grief, it is robbed of half its bitterness. I would have kept this from you, for I would not render you unhappy; but soon—"

"Unhappy!" interrupted the prince; "say not so. The avowal which has fallen from thy lips renders me insensible to the future. I know not"—here his speech was interrupted by frequent kisses—"I know not that I felt more delight at the moment when thou didst first listen to my love, than now to hear what thou hast told me. There are joys whose power cannot be lessened by the prospect, nay, even by the certainty of future misery."

Notwithstanding this earnest asseveration, the prince, as he ponders upon the dangers which threaten them, becomes thoughtful and silent. It is true his face does not exhibit that care and dread that are visible in the countenance of his wife. Its expression is calm and meditative, and, save that his brow is closely knit, is unruffled by emotion; yet, were the extremity of sorrow to come upon them, it may be questioned whether he would endure its bitterness with as much fortitude as the helpless being at his side. He walks the apartment, pondering upon the means that remain to avoid his master's displeasure, pausing at each turn to bless and embrace his wife for the pleasing yet perilous knowledge which she has disclosed to him.

"Why is it thus?" he said; "why are our very pleasures born in danger?—that we cannot rejoice over their possession, lest their very existence should deprive us of them. Shall we be ever thus unfortunate? Yet I am ashamed, my life, to complain of Heaven's unkindness after having known thee. No! let the worst come. I am prepared for it. I will cling to past happiness as to a rock, and the fiercest tempest shall not shake me from it. But thou, mine own, my loved one—what shall support thee in that hour when—"

"When what?" exclaimed the princess, for Giafar was unable to proceed with the cruel sentence.

"When thy father's anger shall fall upon our heads."

"Mention it not, Giafar. I will not listen. I will not look at it. Secure within thy love, I will rest until the blow shall fall. I will not, if I can help it, increase my sorrows by anticipating their coming."

"Thou dost rightly; let us not think but to avoid them. We must fly—we must leave Bagdad. Our home here must be exchanged for some foreign clime, where we may yet be free and happy. Yes! there are lands where thy father's arm could not reach us, where new scenes and new hopes would open to our view."

"Leave Bagdad!" exclaimed Abassa. "But yes—with thee I could, though my heart is rooted here, like the moss which has fastened upon its walls. Let me, while I think upon it, weep, for where shall we find a land so sweet, so well beloved?"

"The sun shines upon many as fair," replied the prince. "Egypt and India boast of bright skies and rich groves. This earth is all a garden—why should we not range it freely?"

"Does the rose bloom as sweetly in the lands you speak of, or does the bulbul sing with as pleasant a note?—it would not sound so to mine ear. Besides this, superstition and impiety sway throughout the East, and Egypt, worse still, is ruled by misguided tyrants of our own faith."

"Shall we seek the West, then?" said Giafar. "Europe's fields are fertile and fair."

"I have heard that they are; and I have heard, too, of the war and rapine which have laid them waste. Each noble strives there with his brother, for the lands which their own arms have ravaged. Every home is a castle, and every temple a fortress. Their maidens are not so peaceful and so happy as our own. The prey of the ruthless, and the prize of the most skilful in fight, their hours must needs pass in terror and disquietude. I should feel lonely in their halls."

"Thou sayst truth. Strong hand alone keeps wealth and power there. 'Tis a rude tenure; yet couldst thou fear with my arm to protect thee? The wealth which I might remove from hence would purchase me a goodly domain, and buy from their princes and their priests freedom for the exercise of our religion. For the rest, this sword will suffice. It shall gain me safety both from peer and vassal. It shall gain me honour and a name. In deeds of chivalry and nightly emprise I will bear me with the bravest, and in their own wild games will I foil the unbelievers. Smile not, my life, 'tis no vain boast. Thine eyes shall see it, and thine own fair hand shall crown me, as is their custom, with the victor's wreath."

"These are dreams, Giafar," said the princess, smiling at his momentary enthusiasm, though her own face glowed as she spoke with the same proud emotion, "Thy heart is firm, and thine arm strong; yet a stranger, unfriended and alone, thou wouldst be borne down in the rude strife that passion and interest light up in those lands. Even should fortune crown thy brave deeds with the fairest success, yet thou couldst not be happy there, or I, at least, could not. I have planted flowers, and their roots have twined deeply into the earth. I have reared birds whose song is sweet music to mine ear. Friends, too—father—mother—all—"

"I would thou hadst left those words unspoken," said the prince; "thou hast touched a chord in my bosom that vibrates painfully. Yes! there are here some brave friends that I would not leave. My brothers, too, whose love is as a kingdom to me—generous and true are ye!—but what avails regret, if destiny must part us?"

"Do not speak so sadly, my dear lord," said the princess. "Compassion may yet touch my father's heart. He may repent him of his purpose, and spare your life and mine."

"I think it not; stern and unsparing is he in his purposes of vengeance. Yet grant it; should he give me life, burdened with his displeasure, it were a torment save for thee. I have held a place most worthy in the eyes of the kingdom; my counsel has been prized in the court, and my sword feared in the field; envy and hatred I have trampled beneath my feet, as I would crush a scorpion into the sand—and to live a thing forgotten and unhonoured—here, where I have ruled, to hold my life as a gift, which I may possess but must never enjoy—not even for thee could I do it. What say I?—by this hand I would!—for thee I would live in bondage to my very slave. But glory—honour—think you that my bosom is dead to their call?"

"I thought you had been sated with their possession," answered Abassa. "How often have I heard you call them the cloud, the meteor, the mirage of the desert. How often have you blessed the fortune which led you to retirement, far from their turbulent control."

"Yes, when they might be mine, I spoke thus; but now that I must yield them up, I feel how dear they are to my bosom. But I will not loose my hold upon them—no, they are mine by right; and if stern fortune and my master's coldness bar to me here the road, I will gladly—so thou wilt go with me—wander to some remote land, where the way is open to renown. It is to be found where brave men dwell together, and the boldest and worthiest hand will ever seize it. Death or disgrace awaits us here; let us not abide its approach—come with me, and in lands as fair as this, I will work thee out as fair a fortune. Come—there is still time."

While he was yet speaking, a knocking was heard at the door of the apartment, and a slave entered with a sealed paper, which he placed in in the hands of the prince. It had been found, he said, in the courtyard of the palace. Within were written these words: "Giafar, beware! The bow is drawn, and the arrow is ready to take its flight. What thou knowest, thou knowest; but if the shield of innocence cannot protect thee, fly, and with speed." The handwriting was unknown to him; there was no impress upon the seal, nor any mark by which he could conjecture as to the writer of the letter. He trembled, and his face became pale. He read the writing again attentively, and a third time gazed vacantly over the lines. He heard the voice of Abassa, as she inquired anxiously as to the cause of his emotion, but the words fell indistinctly upon his ear. "Just Allah!" he exclaimed, "can this be so? The storm comes soon upon us." He then put the scroll into the princess's hands, saying, "Here—read!"

"What is it?" exclaimed Abassa, striving with trembling eagerness to place the paper before her. "What means this dreadful writing?—nay, I cannot read; tell me the purport of the lines."

"All is known, I fear!" answered Giafar; "and this comes as a warning, that I should provide in time for safety. But weep not, do not unman me with thy tears. Help me rather to think how this danger may be averted."

"All is lost, if this speaks true," he muttered to himself, resuming his hurried and irregular walk across the chamber. "Instant flight alone can save us, yet even that may be in vain. If my master's suspicions are aroused, it will be hard indeed to elude his vigilance. Whither, too, should I go, and thus hurriedly? Ah! I should have laid up a secure retreat against this hour. I should not have waited thus, like a vessel far from the haven, until the bursting of the tempest. What to do?—whither to turn? I might throw myself into the arms of my country's foes, and win the name an outcast and a traitor, a disgraced prince, and dishonoured subject. To serve under the green banners of the Fatemite? I could not do it; and the white standard of the house of Ommeyah would reproach me for my dark treason, did I march beneath its shadow. Sooner let confusion and shame blacken my face. To tear this crescent from my turban, and to place there the cross of the Christian—ay"—and he laughed scornfully as he spoke—"or to doff turban, and put on the helmet of the Greek—to take up their impenetrable armour, and their craft, and their cowardice. Oh! Mohammed, assist me—thou art my prophet—thy religion is mine, and I will serve but one God. No, I may be a traitor—nay, I have been one—but an apostate, a foe to Islam?—never! But 'tis vain to talk thus—could I do these things, could I flee with safety to myself and her, would not my father and brothers yet remain behind to endure the calif's vengeance? Would not his hand fall heavily upon them, while I, the guilty one, would be far distant, drawing my breath in ignominy and shame? No, I must suffer—not they. It is inevitable. Yet hold—resistance, ay"—and his eye shone, as though fixed upon some bright and passing vision—"I might wake up the bold spirits whom I have so often led, and with the aid of my brave brothers make head against the tyrant. By the life of Mohammed! 'twere well done—at but a word from me, they would be in arms—"

"What were well done?" exclaimed the princess, aroused from the state of stupor into which she had been thrown by the clear and commanding tones of her husband's voice; "why dost thou frown so angrily, and grasp thy scimitar?"

"It offers a brave chance for safety," continued the prince, not hearing or unheeding her words—"a noble one—I have played many a game more hazardous for him—why not one blow for myself—for life—for love—for everything? I have seen it all—his anger has been long smothered, 'like live coals hid under the dark ashes.' When the fire shall burst forth nothing can quench it save my blood—or his own—yes, his own—and what should hinder me? shall I not strike?"

"What dost thou mutter, Giafar?" again interrupted Abassa. "Whom wouldst thou strike? What hideous fancies disturb thee? Canst thou not look upon me? Wilt thou not answer me?"

" 'Twas nothing," was the reply—"an evil spirit was at my side, tempting me to madness—but he is gone—thou, my good angel, hast driven him away. No, I could not do it—Allah forgive me for the thought! He is my sovereign and my father, and may the waters of hell boil fiercely and for ever in this bosom, if I raise an arm against him. Yet peace, my life," he continued to Abassa, who was again about to speak, "a moment, and I shall be myself. My thoughts are feeble and wavering—my firmness seems shaken and uprooted; but fear not—this weakness is passing. Where is my prudence?—where my pride?" he exclaimed. "If the crisis of our fate is near, shall I not meet it as befits me?—shall not my courage rise, rather than sink, as perils thicken around me? If the emergency is fearful and trying, can I not become equal to it? How else do I differ from the common herd of men? Why have I led armies to the field, and, as vizier to the calif, conducted the various business of the state, if I cannot do this? if I cannot ward off danger with address, or meet it, when inevitable, with fearlessness and calmness?"

Inspiring himself with the thoughts of the past, Giafar called pride to his aid, and by an uncommon effort divested himself of fear, and banished from his soul all tremour and emotion that might derange the nice balance of self-counsel. He was now a noble specimen of Heaven's workmanship. Coolly brave—carefully meditating—ready for the worst—and supporting, upon the shoulders of a giant resolution, the falling ruins of hope and happiness. When he next spoke his manner was entirely free from that agitation which but a moment before had so violently moved him. He seemed as though he were musing upon some most trivial circumstance of life, rather than pondering upon a subject, on which depended his own fate, and the life of the one most dear to him.

"Let me look upon this scroll again," he said. "My father cannot have written it, nor either of my brothers. Had they known this, they would themselves have come and spoken with me. They would have concerted for me the means of flight, and offered me their counsel—ay, and lives. They would have urged me to it—not left it to the warning of these uncertain lines. They know, likewise, that while there is the shadow of a fear for their safety, I would not fly and leave them to suffer in my stead. Whoever wrote this knew me not. No friend would urge me to such baseness—and what stranger is there in Bagdad who, for the safety of a broken and a ruined man, would dare to pen these words? I cannot fathom the mystery. The calif?—by Heaven, a ray of light breaks in upon me!—is it not he? Deep hidden is his craft. As I live it can be no other! He would urge me to flight, that I might give that damning evidence of my guilt. He would have me depart in the vain hope of safety; but the quick messengers of his wrath would soon overtake the fool, the self-condemned one. I understand it now. But this brings hope again to me," he continued after a short pause. "If my master has written this, he cannot know of my disobedience; or why wish for my flight? Why not at once point me to the proof, the condemnation, and let the sword of the executioner do its work upon the traitor's body? No, his suspicions may be awakened, but are not as yet confirmed. Here can be no doubt. And what evidence, unless I give it by flight, can be produced as proof of my guilt? Khatoun cannot be heard beyond the walls of her lone prison. She may not even know of my fault. I may have stifled the treason in its birth, before her base accomplice could return from his guilty errand. Hassan's lips, too, will no more unclose to accuse me. His body has been spirited away, yet no art, no bribes, nor threats can make him breathe the secret. It is true, he was found dead within the precincts of the kiosk, close fallen behind the lattice, as though he had been slain, while in the very act of watching the retirement of his master. The silence, also, which has rested upon his fate. These may have engendered suspicion. Yet how easy were it to disclose a crime which would excuse his punishment, though executed suddenly and rashly—a crime which I might well wish to keep hidden from the world. How easy to produce the partner of his guilt, and prove the baseness from her own lips. But this were hazardous, and might plunge me into the very danger that I would avoid. What surety have I that she would confess her fault? Might she not rather, in the presence of the calif, charge me with disobedience to his commands? and he himself will question her. Would she not, if it is in her power, inform my master of that which may prove my ruin? This must be cared for. I must see her ere I proceed a step farther. If she has the power to destroy me, and with it the will to do so, she must die. I have almost forgotten her falsehood. I hate to think upon it; still more should I grieve to visit her with vengeance, even though just, since it has been thus long delayed. But why should I hesitate, when the lives of others, and those innocent, are perilled by her treachery?"

During this while, Abassa had been a silent spectatress of her husband's agitation. Now and then she answered his self-addressed inquiries as though they had been made to her, and at times put some question to the prince which he noticed not, neither replied to. Turning to her now, he said, "Thou must keep within thine own apartment. Think not if I have been blind that others will be so. The eyes of anger and suspicion are sharper than those of love. Thou mayst conceal this yet for a time; meanwhile a way may offer to escape the fate which now threatens us. There is yet a remedy for our fears, perchance; or if all should fail, I will throw myself upon the calif's mercy, though small chance were that in truth for safety. Retire now, my life. Refuse to see even thy father should he visit thee. Deny him upon the plea of sickness. Betake thyself to thy chamber, and if need be, to thy couch. In truth," he added, pressing his lips to her colourless cheek, "thy face is wan and pale. 'Tis a hard lot for thee to struggle thus with fortune. Yet hope still—still be thyself."

"Wilt thou not soon return?" said Abassa, embracing him tenderly, as he turned to leave her. "I shall do naught but weep while thou art away."

"I will not be long absent," was the reply. "I will see the slave Khatoun, and learn from her the extent of her knowledge and of her treachery. Then will I decide her fate, and the path which I myself must pursue. Farewell! may Heaven shield thee!" Having again affectionately embraced the princess, Giafar departed.

A few words may be necessary to explain more clearly the fears and the purpose of the prince. He was well aware that the situation in which the body of Hassan had been found was, of itself, sufficient to indicate the intention with which he had stolen into that secret retreat; and the punishment which he had suffered seemed to have overtaken him suddenly, in a place ill fitted for a deed of blood, and to all appearance while he was busied in watching the private hours of his master. The purpose of the culprit and of his destroyer seemed equally evident—that of the one to discover, and of the other to conceal the secrets of that retired kiosk. Besides this, the silence which had been observed respecting the death of the slave, would be additional evidence to him who discovered and removed the body, that such was the offence for which he had been thus summarily punished. In one way, however, and in one alone, could these appearances be accounted for, which threatened so much the safety of the prince. There was a crime so irritating in its nature, so galling to the pride and hasty jealousy of a Moslem, that it might well excuse both rashness and secrecy in the punishment of the offender. Upon the evidence which he had of such a one, Khatoun had been imprisoned, and for such, was it the intention of Giafar to declare that Hassan had suffered; and to defend the care with which he had concealed his death, by the plea that pride had led him to throw a veil over the dishonour of his harem. But Giafar was well aware, that his mere assertion would avail but little with the calif, and would contribute in no degree to remove his suspicions, unless enforced by evidence clear and conclusive in its character. For this purpose it would be necessary to produce the faithless Khatoun, and obtain from her an acknowledgment of her own guilt and that of her accomplice. But in taking this step it was to be feared that, irritated by her imprisonment, and through the hope of gaining the favour of his master, Khatoun would accuse him to the calif of the very fault which he was so desirous to conceal. In his present visit to her, then, his purpose was twofold—one, to discover if she had succeeded in her espial upon his actions, and possessed the power as well as the will to betray him; the other, to induce her, by promise of pardon, to assert, in the presence of the calif, the guilt of Hassan, and to confess her own. If she were ignorant of his secret, or, knowing, would not reveal it, her life, though justly forfeited by her falsehood, should be spared. But should he gather, either from her words or demeanour, that his danger would be increased by her appearance before the calif, it was Giafar's intention to put her to death forthwith; for which course, to his jealous and proud spirit there needed no excuse.

The interview which he sought was a task that he ill liked. He burned with indignation at the bare thoughts of her offence, and he felt that to see and question her of her guilt would be a severe trial of his temper. It was, however, necessary for his safety that he should do this; and arming his bosom with double patience, he proceeded, with a heavy and unwilling step, towards her solitary prison.

————

CHAPTER VI.

Oh, couldst thou but know, With what a deep devotedness of woe I wept thy absence—o'er and o'er again Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain, And memory, like a drop, that, night and day, Falls cold and ceaseless, wore my heart away.

Lalla Rookh.

But where was she, the sensitive, the sad one? where was the unfortunate Khatoun? Grief was not sparing her—misfortune and care were doing their utmost to shatter and destroy her health and happiness; and love—he that can dull the sharpest edge of calamity—had spread his wings and flown from her. Deserted by one whom she had deeply loved, she strove in vain to wean her affections from his memory. She remembered the fond looks, the burning words, and the dear caresses which he had lavished upon her; they were blessings for which she had never hoped; but when once they had been hers, when she had known their charm, they had become essential to her happiness—a very part and portion of it. She thought upon their loss, and her bosom was deluged with sorrow. But the inconstancy of Giafar, although the heaviest, was not the only blow which had fallen upon her heart. Lone and desolate, she was wearing her life away in confinement, and pining in solitude over the loss of liberty as well as love.

When the prince became enthralled by the charms and possession of his wife, when he came no more to her as he was wont, wonder and grief were the first emotions of Khatoun. "How could it be?" she thought. "Was he sick or absent?" It might, nay, it must be one of these; and she wearied her brain with framing and varying all those excuses, with which confiding love will so long and so easily buoy up the hearts of its victims. But these could not always support her. There is a limit even to the flattery of hope. She had heard of Giafar's presence in the palace; from the terrace she had seen his well-known form walking down the avenues of cypress and chenar trees, that throw their branches high above the wall which separates that private, that sacred garden from the common enclosure of the palace grounds. And yet he came not, and yet she would not despair. Daily would she ascend the terrace to watch for him, and as often could she discern the prince, and once, as she thought—yes, she could not doubt—a female walking by his side. Then she knew she was deserted.

Ere she yielded to deep and settled sorrow, a cloud of jealousy and anger passed over her, shaking her bosom with its tempest. Harassed by these unsparing and pitiless passions, burning with a wish to know the cause of the prince's inconstancy, she hoped, by tampering with the fidelity of Hassan, to obtain from him the desired yet torturing knowledge. Fortune, however, did not favour her design. On a sudden she found herself secluded from her companions, and confined in the closest solitude in a remote apartment of the harem. All amusements were here denied her. She was attended by an aged female, who held no intercourse with her except by signs, and although she used no harshness in the execution of her duty, yet carefully watched her. When winter came she had been removed to Bagdad, in a litter, alone. No one saw her—none knew of her existence. Yet here her confinement became less rigorous. Her books, and flowers, and birds were restored to her. Her lute was alone withheld, and she was forbidden to sing, lest the sound of her voice should discover her imprisonment. She was allowed, also, to visit at certain hours the bath, and to walk in a retired court, but always accompanied by her mute and vigilant attendant.

Deeply did she brood over her misfortunes. She had been bitterly deceived in those fond hopes, which love and expectation had awakened in her young bosom. She had been, as she often sighed to herself, betrayed and wronged by the very being, upon the wings of whose love, as on an eagle's, she had for a time soared above this world. She had lost sight of its cold and selfish joys in her flight towards heaven. To fall, then, from this height upon the chill earth, to wake from a blissful dream to the dreary reality of desertion and despair, was of itself enough to inflict upon her peace a deep and irremediable wound. But to wake to solitude—to find herself deprived of the society of her companions, and of those resources which might alleviate in some degree her sorrow—this she could not endure. She was fast sinking under an accumulated weight of woe. Her form had become weak and wasted, like a rose leaf withered in autumn, and grief had robed her once crimson cheek with his pale, sad livery. Her beauty had faded, her joys were buried in the past, and hope even had deserted her, save that which looked for the approach of death, as to the certain coming of a friend that would not deceive her.

She was sitting alone, not, as formerly, thinking upon her love and blighted happiness, but pondering upon the future, the quiet grave, the ever-blooming paradise. She was sitting alone and weeping, when she was aroused by some one entering the apartment. Contrary to her custom, she looked up, for it was the step of a stranger, and the almost forgotten sound caused her bosom to palpitate with a thrilling presentiment. She turned her head, and to her astonishment beheld the prince standing near her. Weak as she was, his unexpected presence overpowered Khatoun; her heart fluttered wildly, she tried to speak, but an hysterical scream alone came to her lips, and she sank back feebly upon the divan against which she had been reclining.

Her frail and faded appearance, so changed from the bright and happy being whom he had last seen, somewhat moved the prince. He uttered an exclamation of pity, and stooping forward, raised her gently, and supported her for a moment in his arms. This kindness affected the young girl powerfully; tears, fell in profusion from her eyes, and looking fixedly in his face for a moment, as though to assure herself that it was he, she exclaimed, affectionately,

"Is it thou, indeed, my lord? and art thou come at last? I had ceased to hope for this."

Giafar shrank from these expressions of tenderness. He placed her abruptly upon the carpet where she was seated when he entered, and replied with some severity,

"Can the sight of one whom thou hast injured bring thee pleasure? If so, thou hast it—look upon me."

She gazed up at him through the tears which were streaming from her eyes, and replied,

"Injured thee! what canst thou mean, my lord? Methought"—here she looked sadly around her—" 'twas I had some cause for complaining. This lone chamber—this weak and wasted frame bear witness to my sufferings. Canst thou tell me how I have deserved them?"

"Peace, Khatoun!" quickly replied the prince. "Falsehood will not avail thee; thy crime is known, and thou owest much to my clemency that thou art still in life. Add not to thy guilt by denying it."

"Guilt, my lord!" exclaimed the trembling girl. "Speak, and charge me with it; but torture not with thine upbraidings one who has little strength and less firmness to bear them—above all, from thee."

"Here, look upon this," said the prince, placing before her eyes the ring which he had found upon the body of Hassan. "Ay, tremble; well thou mayst. Deny thy crimes if thou canst."

At the sight of the jewel, Khatoun seemed dismayed. She hung her head, and exclaimed, "Pardon for thy slave! pardon for one who, blinded by passion—"

"Hold!" interrupted Giafar, and his frame shook with anger: "thy shamelessness surpasses even thy guilt. Avow not so boldly thy dishonour, or thou shalt yet suffer the fate of thy paramour."

"Paramour!" exclaimed Khatoun, in wonder: "whom dost thou mean, my lord?"

"Hassan, the slave—traitress!"

"Hassan, the slave, my paramour!" said the startled girl; "the slave Hassan!" and she half raised herself from the recumbent posture in which she had remained during the interview. The flush with which anger had for a moment reddened her pale cheeks departed, and her face, as she raised it, was colourless and calm; it were hard to tell, whether firm and suffering innocence, or cold despair was written in its lineaments. "It is false!"

she continued, lifting her eyes to heaven, and pointing thither with her extended finger. "Though the lips of an angel had spoken it, it were false. How canst thou charge me with this baseness? Thou hast betrayed and deserted me, and wouldst thou find an excuse for thine unkindness in alleging guilt to me? 'Tis ill done, my lord. I am defenceless, and alone, I have no protector but Allah; spare me then! I upbraid thee not—I complain not. I can still suffer, still alone and in silence—but oh! speak not thus cruelly to me."

"Strange!" muttered the prince to himself, almost staggered in his belief of her treachery; "she wears the face of an angel upon her falsehood, if she indeed be guilty. Thou deniest it, Khatoun," he again addressed her: "but tell me, didst thou not give this ring to Hassan, one of the slaves of the harem? Go, go, guilt is written in thy face—my scimitar almost starts from its sheath to visit vengeance on thee."

"Draw it, my lord, and strike: it cannot wound me more deeply than thy words have done. Yet, if thou wilt hear me?" she added.

"Speak, then," said Giafar: "say it was lost, or stolen from thee; or own at once thy guilt."

"Neither of these, my lord; I gave the ring to Hassan—nay, hear me—'twas not for love of him. Oh no! no! how couldst thou think it?" she said, earnestly, the marks of horror and aversion which were visible in her features at the hideous thought, testifying to the sincerity of her reply.

"Thy words, thy looks are like truth, but I trust them not. Would gold, would this toy, have bribed my most faithful slave to betray me? It cannot be—thyself, thy love—ay, these were the lures. Why, too, shouldst thou part with this, mine own gift to thee?"

"What had I, my lord, that was not once thine? I have kept this, and these—see," she said, showing him various rings that encircled loosely her emaciated fingers—gifts which Giafar had forgotten, as things of no account, but which the enamoured girl had treasured up as the memorials of happiness which had once enchanted her.

The prince smiled mournfully, and with a feeling of self-reproach, as he noted the fondness with which she gazed upon these mementoes of past affection. Repressing, however, his compassion, he said, "Yet why didst thou give aught to the slave? Why, if thou art innocent, didst thou wish to ruin and destroy me? Was it thy wounded pride? thy jealousy? and could no sacrifice but my death appease thee?"

"Thy death, my lord? I understand thee not. How could my folly endanger thy safety? I will tell thee why I gave the ring. When thou didst first leave me, grief overwhelmed this bosom: I will not speak to thee of what I then lost, for I would not reproach thee with thine unkindness. Hope still, for a season, bore up my spirits, but soon fled, leaving my desolate heart cheerless and unsupported. I waited long, and in vain, for thy coming, till my heart sickened—jealousy and suspicion entered my soul—thou knowest not their poison, my lord. I thought, nay, I was sure, that thou didst love another. I had seen—Allah, support me!—I had seen thee when thou little thoughtst these eyes were watching thy steps—and she too—ah me! those hours. Pardon me, my lord, one moment, and I will proceed." Her agitation here completely overcame her; she gave free way to it, and attempted not to restrain her tears, or the sobs that were breaking from her bosom, so fast as to impede her power of utterance.

"Calm thyself, Khatoun," said Giafar, much moved: "banish this emotion, this recollection of the sad past, and proceed more firmly."

With a strong effort, the unhappy girl continued: "I was ignorant who she was, the partner of thy retirement, the cause of mine unhappiness. All the feelings in my bosom seemed to concentrate in one strong wish to discover my rival; to know her name, her accomplishments, and beauty, that I might judge from thence if her power over thee were likely to endure, or if I might hope soon to be again blessed with thy love. Thus actuated, urged by jealousy and fear, I addressed myself to Hassan. He was, I knew, one of the slaves who attended in thy private garden, and I endeavoured to induce him, by the richest bribes in my possession, to obtain for me the information which I so much desired. Often he denied me, but granted to my tears at last, what he refused to gold."

"He did? ay, and told thee that the princess—"

"It was the princess, then!" exclaimed Khatoun. "My heart told me it was she, but I knew it not till now. I never saw the slave again; he came no more to me; and soon I was removed to solitude, debarred from all pleasure, even if it could come to one so wretched—but 'tis past. Thou hast regretted thine unkindness, and pardoned me, hast thou not?"

"I have—I have," said the prince. "Thou hast indeed been wronged; thou hast erred, but art not guilty, as I thought thee. I have been much to blame. Canst thou forgive me?"

Unused as her ears had long been to words of kindness, on hearing these expressions of regret from the prince's lips, she looked up at him in wonder, but spoke not—her heart was full. He took both her hands in his, and raising her to him, looked compassionately upon her, and said, "Thy face is pale; thou art indeed changed. I pity thee, Khatoun—I owe thee amends for this."

"Heed it not, my lord," she replied, while she bedewed his hands with her tears; "heed it not, for thou canst easily repay me. Words like these come to my heart like showers long delayed upon a withered garden; they have already made me forget my sufferings." Giafar had supported her lightly in his arms, with a feeling chaste and passionless, as though they encircled an urn which held the ashes of departed love; but as Khatoun continued, she settled more securely and confidingly within their clasp. "Shall not those days return? Shall I not leave this prison? and will you not love me again, as you once did, and come to tell me of it? This would indeed smooth my path to the grave—nay, I think it would recall me thence, to life and happiness."

The prince hesitated to remove her from his affectionate yet cold embrace, into which she seemed to have taken refuge, as in a safe haven, from all the storms which had scathed her. He spoke not for a moment, for he knew not how to answer, but pressed his lips in silence to her pale brow. The kiss thrilled to her heart, where all the blood in her weak frame had concentrated—it returned, however, to her cheek in a deep flush, when she heard the prince's reply. "Khatoun, it cannot be! thou knowest not what thou askest. I would not needlessly distress thee, for thou hast suffered much already from my folly and blindness—nay, cruelty if thou wilt; but it is better thou shouldst know at once that my heart, my very being is bound up in another. It cannot be!—forget me! forget the past, and be thyself once more." For a moment it seemed as if pride would come to the young girl's assistance; she attempted to extricate herself from his firms, but in vain. So a flower struggles against the first breathings of the blast, and as it falls again to earth when the tempest has fully come, so in a moment she drooped upon his bosom weeping. "I am very weak," she said, when she could find utterance. "I cannot at once control my feelings; indeed I never could, as they whose minds have been trained and strengthened by education. I was ever somewhat wayward. I am ignorant too, thou art aware. I know nothing but what I have learned from thee, and this lesson thou hast forgotten to teach me. But it will not be always thus. I shall conquer this love of mine. I will watch my heart, and constant care shall at last free it from the tyrant; yet be a kind master to me, and I will ever be thy faithful slave."

"I will be a guardian and protector to thee, Khatoun," replied the prince, "but a master no longer—thou art no more a slave, thou art free. I owe this to thee. Go where thou wilt—seek thine own home, or remain here if thou wouldst rather, in my household—the choice is thine."

Her countenance brightened not at this gift, though inestimable, of liberty, but she replied—"I wish it not. I came hither ignorant, and thou hast enlightened me—alone, and thou wert kind to me—friendless, and for a while thou lovedst me. Though thou art changed, yet I would not leave thee. I have no home but here, no liberty but in being thy slave."

"Well, it shall be as thou wilt," replied the prince—"thy books, thy lute, the freedom of the harem are restored to thee. Henceforth be happy—thou wilt forget thy sorrows ere a moon rolls by."

"I can easily forget my sorrows," answered

Khatoun, sighing, "but I cannot so easily drown the remembrance of joys that have once been mine. But talk not of happiness to me, my lord; I look not for it upon this earth—it has gone, never to return. But heed it not. I can be content perhaps—content to pass the few days that yet remain to me, thinking of thee, till they are ended. 'Twill be my last sad solace, to dream of love that has for ever departed."

"Forget me, as one unworthy of thee," said the prince. "Be advised, Khatoun, receive thy liberty at my hands, and seek elsewhere a lover, a husband, and a home. I will endow thee richly, and there are many youths in Bagdad would strive for the possession of thy fair hand. Think well of it, thy heart may yet burn with new hopes and new joys; and in these thou shalt forget him, who must forget thee. Remember! there is no refuge from love but in love again."

Khatoun looked in wonder upon the prince, and answered, "Dost thou say this, my lord! love again? how blinded have I been? Thou hast never known this passion, or thou wouldst not speak thus lightly of it. Love another! sayst thou? it is impossible! Were the treasures of earth and heaven offered to me, I could not be bribed by them to do it. I could not frame a thought, a wish for any, any one but thee. Love another! I could no more do it than—ask thine own heart, my lord, if I speak not the truth—than thou canst love Khatoun."

"Thou sayst rightly," replied the prince, silenced by this direct appeal to his own feelings; "the affections will not be controlled. Think no more of it—these palace halls are free and spacious; every pleasure shall here wait upon thee, and time will soften, if it does not remove thy sorrows."

" 'Tis as I thought!" he exclaimed, when he had retired a few paces apart, and meditated for a moment upon the prospect before him. " 'Tis as I thought. Those lines were written by the calif. Ay, it was a treacherous snare, one worthy of my crafty master. But with the aid of Heaven I may avoid it My fault is as yet undiscovered, and but for Hassan's death might even be unsuspected. From that quarter comes the danger—I cannot doubt it. How, since she is innocent, can I excuse that deed? How can I satisfy my doubting master?—and every slight suspicion must be driven from his mind—all his misgivings banished, ere I can fly hence with safety. If she would own herself thus false, if with her own lips she would confess the deed I deemed her guilty of, all might be well. Yet, can I urge her to it? Can I bid her, suffering and innocent as she is, thus wrong her honour? I cannot—'tis too cruel! Yet why should I not? 'Tis her own folly that has brought this present danger upon us. I must not be wanting to myself—to her, my trembling, innocent wife, in this peril. I must close up every avenue through which destruction may enter to devour all I love. The evil is but temporary, and should not weigh for a moment against those which threaten our safety. Lost fame may again return, and the world's favour is soon regained; but death's cold grasp is ruthless and enduring—its icy hand will not release its victim."

With the air of one who has taken some trying resolution, and has steeled his mind to its execution, he now turned and addressed the young slave. "Thou wilt be happy here—fear not but thou wilt; and when death shall take me hence, as it soon will, Khatoun, I will not leave thee without a home, and without wealth sufficient for all thy wishes."

"Thou affrightest me with those gloomy tones, my lord," she answered. "Why talk thus? Danger cannot surely come nigh such as thou, so powerful, so well esteemed."

"It is nearer than thou art aware. My stern master is even now marking me for his victim. Thou dost start! thou weepest! know thou art lamenting one whom thine own folly has destroyed."

"I!—how? how have I done this?" said the terrified girl. "It cannot be."

"Were it not so, I would not charge thee with it. Thou hast heard, doubtless, bruited throughout the palace, the strict command by which the calif has enslaved my marriage with his daughter?"

"Some rumour I have heard—some strange rumour; but held it as an idle tale—the busy scandal of the harem, rather than truth."

"And of the threatened doom?"

"Nothing, my lord, so may Heaven bless me, nothing."

"That it was death?"

"I knew it not. Allah preserve thee from the fate! But how does this point to me, my lord?"

"Most clearly. How were my disobedience known save for thee? Safe from all danger, I rested in security, until thy jealousy sent Hassan upon his ill-fated errand. Then came discovery—then fear and danger—and death follows close upon the victim's track. If thou hast not known of this—if thy lips have not imparted the secret, yet thy base messenger has disclosed all to the angry calif. Yes, Khatoun, death comes to me at thy hands. I have deserved this, thou wilt say, for I have deeply injured thee; but the princess! she has not harmed thee, yet she must equally suffer."

Khatoun listened to the prince's words with a countenance in which doubt and terror seemed equally mingled. As he proceeded, the latter emotion predominated more and more, until he had ceased speaking, when she was silent for a moment, following out in her own thoughts the chain of evidence by which Giafar was led to accuse her as the author of his ruin, until she seemed to have reached the last link, and as she found it centered in her, that her jealousy and anger had caused this danger, wonder was no more seen in her features, but chilling horror, like a driving wind, swept across her pale face, and she exclaimed in piercing tones, "I see it!—it is so—have mercy, Allah! But I will die with thee, Giafar. Upon thy grave will I breathe this worthless life away to expiate my folly."

"No grave will enclose the traitor's body," replied the prince, with melancholy and cruel sternness. "This carcass, torn and mangled, will be scattered to the winds of heaven, or wither upon the walls of Bagdad, a hideous monument of the calif's vengeance. Scarce a vestige will remain of him who now speaks to thee, for friends to weep over—if there are any left to mourn me!"

"Hold! hold!" shrieked the young girl, wild with horror; "these words will kill me. Yet no—speak on, speak on. Death I would welcome—or thou canst do it with this steel, Giafar," and she grasped convulsively his scimitar, and half drew the blade from its sheath.

Giafar raised her from his bosom, where she had fallen in the exertion, and looking upon her more mildly, said, "Pray not for this, Khatoun. No—live to redeem and save those whom thy folly has endangered. It may be that thou canst repair the evil thou hast wrought."

"How? tell me!" she interrupted, quickly; "will my life, torture, courage—anything to do or suffer? Tell me in haste—I cannot bear this agony." 'Twas pictured in her face, agony, torturing, piercing, such as her weakened frame could not long support.

Giafar trembled for a moment, lest he had overtasked her powers of endurance, and hastened to reply—"Mind not my words, Khatoun; they were harshly spoken. Thou canst without suffering or danger do that which may save me from threatening ruin. I would not have spoken thus sternly but to render thee sensible of the horrors that thou thyself hast brought upon me, and upon one I love, that thou shouldst the more readily do that which may dispel them."

"Was it necessary to do this, my lord?" said Khatoun, reproachfully, but still trembling with emotion. "Dost thou not know that I would give my life for thine, that I would do anything to serve thee?"

"Listen to me calmly," replied Giafar, "and then answer. Thou alone art privy to a secret which might destroy me; no one living but thee knows of my fault. Hassan is dead—yes, this scimitar is yet stained with his blood. From thee, then, and thee alone, can come the proof which must condemn me."

"I will not breathe it, Giafar," exclaimed Khatoun, interrupting him—"no threat, no torture can unclose my lips when thou bidst me be silent."

"This is not enough; no common denial can avail. The calif himself will question thee, and thou wilt find in him a stern interrogator. Thou must frame the falsehood with a face of innocence. There must be no faltering of the voice, no look of fear, no trembling, to betray thee to thine observing judge; this were worse than idle."

"Oh! I will do this—nay, how could I do aught else, for I know naught, save from things own words, that could injure thee. Is this all, then? Give me a task more difficult, more dangerous—one which may prove my penitence and truth."

"I have not told thee yet," replied the prince; "strengthen thy mind to hear me, for the task may not be easy to perform. Do not smile so confidently, but listen: I have fears—no matter why—'twere needless to inform thee—that the death of Hassan is known to the calif. It was done in secret. I waited not for the law to award the sentence of his death, but smote him swiftly and surely, while busied in his base purpose, in the very act of watching my most sacred hours. Even where he stood he fell, ere he could turn him from the treacherous deed. Silence like that of the tomb, for which I destined him, has rested upon his fate. But I have had a sure warning that his death is known to my master—the hour is hardly passed that brought with it a token of discovery, and a threat of punishment; thence is my only source of fear. Could I avouch to the calif some plea for his execution, one which would fully justify its secrecy and despatch, then would I bid defiance to danger. There is one—canst thou not guess it? the crime of which I held him guilty, and in which till now I deemed thee a partaker; this would serve such purpose. Thou seest this?"

"Most plainly, my lord," answered Khatoun. "But whither tend thy words?"

"When my master shall charge me with his death—when he shall accuse me of having destroyed him that I might remove a witness of mine own fault—how shall I answer? He is innocent of that crime by which I hoped to palliate the deed. Seest thou not how thou canst avert this danger? Bear for a while the imputation of this guilt, and satisfy the calif that his suspicions are unfounded. Dost thou not comprehend?"

"No, no, not yet!" said the young girl, drawing her breath with difficulty, and compressing her pale lips. "Go on! tell me all!"

"I have told thee, Khatoun," said Giafar, unwilling to repeat what he had said, "but thou wilt not heed me."

"Will not my life suffice? Take it, and then say what thou wilt of me. I could not bear it living, but in the grave I shall not hear this baseness uttered of me. Will not this satisfy thee?"

"Thy death!—I ask it not. Thou wilt live to be the guardian and protector of thy master; own, but for a time, this thing—'tis but a word—and safety and happiness shall come to us again."

The poor girl wrung her hands in anguish, and looked wildly to heaven, while Giafar was speaking, but not the slightest moisture bedimmed her eyes. This was a trial too keen, too humiliating for tears—or it may be that the sources which should have supplied them had been drained by her continued sorrows. When he had ended, she exclaimed,

"Oh, no! no! do not ask it of me. Not for the lives of thousands would I own myself so vile a thing. Thou mayst say it of me, my lord, if it will avail aught, and I will not open my lips to assert mine innocence. If the calif should inquire of me if I am thus guilty, I can be silent. But never could my tongue—to think—a slave—the words would choke my utterance. Do not look so angrily upon me. Frown not. I would perish for thee—but ask me not with mine own voice to proclaim such evil of myself."

"I am not angry with thee, Khatoun," said Giafar, relentingly, "my frowns are not meant for thee. No, they are for the cruel, threatening horrors that surround me. I blame thee not for this refusal. Let it pass. Farewell; others besides thyself can suffer firmly. Allah strengthen her and thee too! Farewell!"

"Stay! stay!" she exclaimed, detaining him with a slight grasp. "I shall yet do it. Urge me—entreat me—I cannot at once consent."

"Hear me, Khatoun," said Giafar. "I will not urge thee; I will not even repeat my wish to thee. I do not wonder that thou shouldst feel thus keenly. 'Tis hard to bring the lips to speak our own shame—even for man 'tis hard; but for thy helpless sex, whose fame a breath—a word—may spot irrevocably, 'tis doubly so. I have asked too much of thee. Mind not what I have said. Forget it. Let it not dwell a moment in thy memory."

"I will do it, my lord," said the young girl, assuming a desperate firmness—"I will do all you wish. Yes, bring me to the calif, and you will wonder to hear with what effrontery I will own such baseness of myself. By this I shall redeem my errors—shall I not?"

"Thou wilt do more than this," said Giafar, pressing her compassionately to his bosom. "Thou wilt load me with a debt of gratitude that I can never repay. And bear in mind, Khatoun, this evil is but for a time. If I escape the fate that now hangs suspended over my head, fear not but that this stain upon thine honour shall be all wiped away; and if I perish, my latest breath shall avow thine innocence. All the world shall yet praise thee for the generous deed. There is a gay life before thee, and, believe me, thou wilt not the less enjoy its blessings, for that thou hast served, even with more than life, an unworthy master."

A melancholy smile played upon her features as she listened to this vain encouragement of the prince, and she replied,

"All this is nothing to me. Talk not of honour and the world's esteem; they have but little value in mine eyes. Think you it is for these I hesitate? Ah no! a secret shrinking, a dread repugnance to a crime of which I cannot think but with a of horror—'tis this that is so hard to overcome. But I have resolved—for thee I have resolved to do even this. I would fain imagine, standing, as I think I do, upon the borders of the grave, that it is for justice, for mercy, for the sake of thine innocent, thine unoffending wife, that I make this fearful sacrifice. But 'tis in vain. I cannot thus deceive myself. No, it is love that prompts me. Let me, for the last time, avow it; and here, in the view of all the evils I have brought upon thee, for ever I renounce it. Remorse and penitence alone remain. Yet I have one request, my lord; the princess—she must not think this of me. Spare me that degradation. Let her not believe that one whom you have loved could ever fall so low."

"She shall know all, Khatoun. She is as generous and gentle as thyself, and thou wilt for ever gain her esteem and her affection."

"May I not see her? May I not be with her for the few mournful days that remain to me? No one will smile upon me now. My companions will all shun me—yes, some that once loved me well. Where should I turn? As well dwell here alone, in this prison, as wander deserted and solitary through the harem, all scorning me as I pass. I shall not bring reproach upon her in the solitude of her chamber. I will attend her and be her slave."

Giafar hesitated ere he replied. With the attachment which the young girl still manifested towards him, he felt that it would be far more conducive to her peace if she were separated from his society. He feared, too, that her heart would be often pained to witness the warm love which he bore to Abassa, a feeling which would be frequently displayed in kind looks and words, and the many endearing offices which declare its existence as well as minister to its life. She quickly divined the cause of his delay, and said,

"Wherefore dost thou hesitate, my lord? Fear not but I shall be faithful. Doubt not my constancy of temper. What is there left on earth for one like me but to serve, while I yet live, those that I love—to rejoice in their happiness and to weep over their sorrows. I think of nothing beyond this now—save it be the grave."

"It shall be so," replied the prince. "Thou shalt be with her, Khatoun, and ever share her fortune."

After bidding her a kind farewell, Giafar departed.

"Am I steeled to sorrow?" he exclaimed, as soon as he had left her presence. "Do not mine eyes weep? Or is it triumph and hope that bear me thus up? No!—a tear!—Allah be praised! this heart is not of stone. How have I wronged this faithful girl. To what a trial have I urged her. She will do it, and all through love for me—her cruel master—it may be, her destroyer. Were it but my own life, how gladly would I yield it up to spare her this anguish. But my wife—my innocent wife—perhaps my whole house—Heaven shield them! I will no longer dwell upon it. She shall be well repaid for all her sufferings. There is yet light around me," he continued. "All is, I think, secured. Upon the morrow I will seek my master, and banish all his doubts. Deep guile must be upon my tongue. I must frame my lips to falsehood, and coin a tale smooth as the one which the first serpent whispered to our erring mother. 'Tis a vile part to act, yet will not want some merit if borne with courage and with skill. Even ill is not all ill, if well and bravely done. My stern master has watched, most like with cruel pleasure, the care which has concealed the death of Hassan, waiting like the ambushed tiger to grasp his prey. But to the craft, he has not joined the patience of that fierce beast. He could not wait until the victim was within his reach, as soon it must have been, certainly, and without hope. Too eager in his vengeance, he has left the covert, and leaped to meet his victim. Now that I watch the spring, I may perchance avoid it. He himself has warned me, and I will not slight his words. Heaven arm me with courage, and pardon all my falsehood! I struggle for a rich prize."

————

CHAPTER VII.

He knew his crime deserved a punishment, And yet his eye sank not before the fiery glance That threatening, rested on him—his cheek Blanch'd not—no quivering muscle told That fear was at his heart—calmly he stood, As hearing rather some soft tale of love, Than vows of vengeance, deadly, stern, and dire.

Play of the Assassin.

Rumours are current throughout Bagdad, which, if well founded, must implicate the safety of one of the most important personages in the kingdom. It often chances that he, whose happiness is most nearly concerned in such secret and spreading whisperings, is the last to hear of their existence. Friends are, it may be, ignorant as himself, or hesitate to become the heralds of ill fortune to one they love. He walks in blindness even to the verge of the precipice, and perishes, perhaps, for lack of that knowledge which, if timely, might have turned him from danger.

Thus was it with Giafar, when on the day succeeding the one on which he had held the interview with Khatoun, he bent his steps towards the royal palace. The purpose of his visit to the calif was to remove the jealousy which he knew his master entertained against him, and by the testimony of Khatoun to establish a belief of his innocence. But he knew not of the mine that was ready to spring beneath his feet. Many dangers which had encompassed him seemed removed, or fast vanishing; hope buoyed up his courage, and led him to expect a favourable termination to his fears.

Not thus unapprised, however, was the calif of the reports which so nearly concerned the prince's safety. Willing tongues bear the tidings of another's fault. They have reached the ears of the monarch, and his haughty spirit is aroused. Suspicion had long slept within his bosom, and now, aroused as it was by the voice of rumour, woke into distressing, torturing certainty. He walks the palace halls with a brow frowning, and features black as night. He stamps upon the marble floor; the sound, reverberating through the vaulted chambers, falls upon the hearts of his slaves, and chills them with fear. They flee from his presence; or if, perchance, they meet him, their faces are in the dust. They dare not look upon him in his anger. The venerable Iahia alone ventures into his presence. Haroun turns from him, exclaiming, "Thy son—thy son—old man! Let him look well to his head."

"Which son, my lord?" said Iahia, tremblingly; but the old man's heart well told him which.

"Giafar—the wretch!" was the stern reply.

"He is here, my lord," and as Iahia spoke the young prince entered.

Giafar saw, in the frowning and impassioned mien of his master, an index of the tempest within his bosom, and divined immediately some new cause for fear. It was the momentary depression caused by this feeling, probably, that rendered his prostration before the calif more prolonged and profound than ordinary. Or perhaps, he so demeaned himself, that he might gain time to divest his features of the agitation that for an instant shook them; and to collect and reassure his self-command ere he arose. He had scarcely time to effect this, if such was his purpose, ere the voice of Haroun sounded on his ear, in those withering and thrilling tones which that monarch could so well assume.

"Well mayst thou hide thy face in the dust, vile slave! well mayst thou crouch to earth, and grow pale in the presence of thine offended master."

"Shadow of God upon the earth!" replied the prince, with all the composure which he could assume, "is it permitted to thy slave to speak?"

"Speak, but weigh well thy words," answered the calif; "for thou standest upon the verge of the tomb."

"Anger sits in the face of my lord. His ire is aroused against his servant. Yet, ere the blow falls, may he not know the crime for which he is to suffer?"

"Thou art trifling with thy life, slave, to speak thus to me," said the monarch. "Canst thou not guess thy fault?"

"It were false, my lord," answered Giafar, "to say that I could not. I know too well the origin of all thine anger and thy distrust against me, though I thought not that they were thus aroused. This paper, brought to me by some unknown hand, first informed me that I was held by thee as one guilty of falsehood and disobedience. It threatens punishment likewise, and counsels flight."

"Whence came it?" said the calif, scarce looking at the scroll.

"I know not, my lord," answered Giafar; "neither can I divine its purpose."

"Hast thou heard naught besides this?" inquired Haroun, sternly. "Knowest thou not of the tales that ring throughout the city? tales of thy falsehood, and of my credulous folly? Hark, as thou walkest the streets, to the tongues that proclaim thee a false subject, and a perjured prince. By Allah! the very winds are bearing my dishonour widely throughout the kingdom. But thou shalt die for it, Giafar."

"They speak falsely, my lord, that so speak," answered the prince, enduring, unmoved, the withering look which accompanied the calif's words. "But what avails denial when the sentence has gone forth? The life of the slave is in the hands of his master."

"Thou sayst rightly," said Haroun, quickly. "And were it not so, I should look to see thee, scimitar in hand, disputing my authority. But with all thy treachery, thou art not thus far gone in folly and in madness."

"How, my lord, against thee!" exclaimed the prince. "Let the blow descend then at once, since thou deemest me thus faithless. Yet hear me while I assert, that were the doom of a traitor now to be executed upon this body, it could not fall upon one more faithful, more devoted to thy service."

"That time is past when thou mightst have said this, Giafar," answered the calif, yielding somewhat in the severity of his tone, though still speaking with fearful and gloomy calmness. "A year since, and had a prophet told me that thou wouldst thus stand before me a false and sentenced man, I would have spurned him. But the will of Allah be done! Thou art surely guilty, and as surely shalt thou suffer. All thine art is vain. Though practised in cunning, it cannot avail thee now. Hast thou not dishonoured and disobeyed me? hast thou not—but there is a partner in thy guilt. Ye have sinned together, and together would I question ye. Together," he added, after a short pause, "together ye must suffer. Return to thy house and bring hither the princess my daughter."

Giafar's heart sank within him at hearing these words. It was a task to which his bold and ready courage was scarce equal—to endure the searching scrutiny of his master, and he knew that the gentle spirit of his wife would not support her in the trial. He answered, however, firmly, "She is ill at ease, my lord—fitter for the sick couch, if she be not already there, and for the care of the physician, than to come forth from her chamber."

"Ha!" said the monarch, with a penetrating glance—"what aileth her?"

"Little skill of the hakim have I, my lord, save it be for wound of sword, or prick of barbed arrow. Strange fancies seem to disturb her brain, her frame is feverish and feeble; more than this I know not."

"She shall be well cared for," said Haroun. "The physician of our own household shall bestow his skill upon her. Go seek Gabriel Bact Jeschoua, and bring him into my presence."

Giafar was silent, bowed lowly, and withdrew.

"How sayst thou, old man?" said the Commander of the Faithful to Iahia, after the prince had departed—"how sayst thou? Is not the bird taken in the snare?"

"It may be so, my lord," replied Iahia; "yet mine eye could see no fluttering in the captive, no consciousness of guilt, no fear."

"Thou knowest not thy son, Iahia, though thou hast reared him, if thou lookest for these. I well believe he would not tremble on the bridge Al Sirat, could mortal boldness avail in that perilous passage."

"Should he be guilty, as thou thinkest, is there not forgiveness in thy hand?" inquired the old man. "Remember his past services, my lord."

"They are forgotten," answered the calif; "and were they without number, would be all obliterated by the black ingratitude with which he has repaid my kindness to him. Speak not in the traitor's behalf."

"He is my son, most mighty sovereign, and, as I hope, no traitor. If not for his own sake, for the sake of these white hairs that have grown gray in thy court, forgive him. Remember! paradise is reserved for him who pardoneth offences."

"Who art thou, worm!" exclaimed the calif, indignantly, "that thou shouldst withstand my wrath? Should his whole tribe plead for the slave, it would not shield him, though, by the beard of my father, it might peril much their own safety." The reply of Iahia was prevented by the return of the prince, who entered followed by the hakim Gabriel. The years of Gabriel Bact Jeschoua (or the Christian Gabriel, as he was called, from the creed which he professed) were about threescore and ten. He was remarkably tall and spare, yet his flowing robes, and his long but thin white beard, which reached nearly to the ground, gave him an impressive appearance. His face was pale and meditative, and his eyes wore that haggard expression, which is the result of long and frequent watching, yet there was a mildness about his features that was peculiarly attractive. After he had arisen from a precise and grave prostration before the Commander of the Faithful, Haroun thus addressed him:—

"Thou hast not been so wrapped in thy studies, learned hakim, as to have forgotten that Giafar al Barmeki is my son-in-law?"

"I know it, sire," answered the hakim.

"And the terms of that union thou mayst likewise remember?"

"Something I have heard of them, strange, and, as I thought—"

"We will not tax thy wisdom, good Gabriel," interrupted the calif, "for an opinion as to their fitness. Such were my commands. How if they have been disobeyed? if mine authority has been slighted, mine honour trampled in the dust? What thinkest thou of it?"

"An offence most heinous, exceeding heinous," replied the sage.

"Ay!" exclaimed the calif, "and by Allah! I swear the punishment shall amply equal the offence. The scimitar will not wear its edge after having passed over the guilty one and his house."

"Knowest thou, my lord, that this evil hath been done?"

"I well know it," answered the calif. "I tell thee, hakim, that the dishonour of my house is in the mouths of all Bagdad. The very children at their play prate of the false Giafar, and his doting master. Hast thou not heard these things?"

"Some rumour of this sort reached me to-day," replied the physician, "but I turned mine ear from the tale. The wise man hearkens not to the scandal of fools, and the voice of the multitude is no meet counsel for princes in their anger."

The calif noted the reproof which the words of the hakim conveyed, and answered, "Thou hast spoken wisely, Gabriel. But when the people cry

'there is fire within the walls,' let the sage look for the spark. Rumours the most improbable are always reared upon some foundation, though it may be slight. I do not heed these, however. I will be just. I will not punish the traitor, save upon the full proof of his guilt. Listen, learned hakim, I have this for thee to do. Go to the prince's palace, there thou wilt find my daughter. She is ill, and may need thy care. Enlighten thyself well as to the source of her complainings, and—mark me well!—return not hither until thou art assured whether—the curse of Eblis light on busy tongues!—whether these tales that are abroad be true or no."

"Alas! my lord, thy servant cannot do this. His skill is unequal to the task. There may be others in thy court who can serve thee better in this thing."

"What dost thou in my household then, or with those robes, if thy skill is naught, when most needed?" exclaimed the calif, angrily. "By this hand, if thou wilt not obey—or cannot—I care not which—I will have thy beard torn from thee, and, stripped of thy grave apparel, thou shall be scourged from the city gates."

"Thou urgest me to a task beyond my power, most potent sovereign. My lord cannot know how dark, how difficult is the duty which he has assigned his servant. Diseases, like the chameleon, are ever changing their hues—to know them we must still study them anew. Yet more are they like that strange insect which takes its colour from the surface upon which it creeps. The All-wise, in his power, has framed man of the same clay, yet not alike. The sinews, the nerves of thy frame are far different from those of a frail and delicate maiden, and the sickness that would scarcely make thee droop, would wellnigh part soul and body in her. Each mortal differs from his fellow, so likewise differ in them diseases. Small skill is requisite to apply ointment to the wound, but 'tis most difficult to probe it. 'Tis easy to administer a healing drug, yet hard to know whence comes the pain that needs its succour. This is an art which is only acquired by years of daily toil and midnight study, which the wisdom of ages has not yet perfected, and will not, as I think. To know—"

"Well, prate no more of thy craft," said the calif, cutting short the old man in his speech. "I have heard enough. Away to this duty, and fail not, when thou shalt return, to account to me fully of all that I shall inquire of thee. Speak not, but away."

The tone and manner of the calif were decisive, and admitted of no appeal. Sensible of this, the sage retired, much disturbed by the errand on which he was employed, muttering, as he took leave, "I will go—Esculapius aid me! Thy servant will go, my lord."

It were a vain attempt to describe the feelings of the young prince, as at his master's command he followed him into a retired apartment of the palace. The doubt—the fear—the irresolution that made up the anguish of his soul, words cannot speak, nor pen describe them. Yet, like unwritten paper, Giafar's countenance told nothing of what was rending his bosom. He might pass unharmed through the dread ordeal of his master's scrutiny. Clothed in the armour of cool and unbending courage, he had hoped to come unscathed from the flame. Yet now, if such should be the issue of his address, even while exulting in his escape, might come the ill-omened messenger, the prying hakim, with damning evidence of his disobedience, to plunge him deeper into ruin. Which way to turn?—what path to follow? To throw himself at the calif's feet, confess his guilt, and beg submissively for pardon?—no, that chance he had cast away. He had appeared before his master with a face of innocence; and now to do this, were the effect, plain and glaring, not of contrition, but of despair. "No!" said Giafar to himself, "it would be vain. The way is steep and dangerous, but it lies straight before me, and by Mohammed, I will tread it firmly, and with courage, if the steps should be my last." He cast a glance at his aged father ere he left the hall, and in his looks he read that which nerved and strengthened him; in them was seen sorrow, deep and heartrending, yet mingled there, was proud exultation, as he gazed upon his patient, bold, and suffering son.

The apartment to which the calif led the way was a small and darkly furnished chamber. A curtain of black velvet hung from the ceiling, shutting out, for the most part, the light which entered at the windows, while the few rays that escaped from behind its folds were reflected from walls painted in sad and gloomy colours. A single taper was burning, which threw its flickering and uncertain light upon the dusky furniture of the chamber.

"What may thine anger portend, my lord?" said the wondering Giafar, when the calif had seated himself.

"Listen to me, slave, and then answer. With all the ingratitude that is infused into thy base soul, thou canst not deny my goodness to thee. I have heaped honour and riches upon thee, and upon thy father's house. Even to the full extent of my power, I have done this. I have allied thee to my family, have given to thee in marriage my daughter, and upon thine enjoyment of all these favours have placed but one restriction. This thou hast transgressed—nay, deny it not. 'Twill but increase thy guilt."

"Hear me, my most noble sovereign. I am guiltless of this," said the prince, throwing himself at his master's feet. "I know that my life hangs by a single thread; yet in the face of this danger, while breath remains in these nostrils, I will not cease to declare mine innocence."

"Recall what thou hast said," exclaimed the calif. "Confess thy guilt, and die at least honourably, if thou hast not lived thus. The proofs are most clear, and thou well knowest cannot fail fully to condemn thee. A member of thine own household is here to attest thy guilt."

"How!" said the prince; "of mine own household? Who? Confront me with the wretch. In my presence he would be dumb, or speak but to avow his falsehood."

"Be it so," said the monarch, and he clapped his hands thrice together and called loudly on Hassan. At the sound of that name Giafar started, then turning, looked upon a sight which struck him with horror. The curtain had been drawn, and in the full light which came from two capacious windows, the murdered slave was standing as in life erect. His face was of the hue of death, pale and ghastly, and his glaring eyes were fixed steadily upon the prince. One hand rested against his bosom, while the other pointed to heaven, as though in an appeal to the Divinity for the truth of some asseveration, which had but just passed from his cold and closed lips. No voice was heard, it is true—it seemed as though the slave had but that moment ceased to speak, and was looking accusingly upon Giafar for his reply. How! had the grave given up its victim? Had the vindictive spirit returned to its mutilated body, for vengeance against the author of his death? This sudden and startling display of terror shook even the firm nerves of the prince. He was bearing up and striving against his fears, when the stern voice of his master sounded on his ear, saying,

"Look upon him, Giafar! Look, if thy fears will let thee. He will speak anon, and charge thee with thy treachery."

And to the fancy of the prince the lips of the slave seemed to unclose, as if about to speak; but he waited not to hear if sound or words came from that chilling spectre. Overcome with horror, he bowed before the calif's feet, exclaiming,

"Guilty, my lord! guilty!"

Haroun smiled in vindictive triumph at Giafar's acknowledgment of his guilt, and seemed about to pronounce some dreadful sentence against the culprit, perhaps even summarily to execute it with his own hands. But the prince's fortitude had forsaken him for a moment only. It was not in his character to surrender hope and life without a desperate struggle. Yet had his own fate alone depended upon the issue of that trying moment, it had been fixed, sealed beyond recovery, and the utmost infliction of the calif's vengeance would perhaps have been a welcome release from the dread trial of that hour. But he endured and struggled for others besides himself. With a glance like that of the lightning upon the perils that surrounded him, he gave one thought upon his wife, his father, and his brothers, and then, though looking every moment for the return of the hakim, with the last evidence of his guilt and the seal of his condemnation, he collected all his firmness, and slowly raising his head, added,

"Guilty of the death of the slave."

The calif's brow darkened in disappointed anger, and he exclaimed, "How, wretch?"

"Guilty of the death of Hassan, my lord," replied the prince. He had not time for more. He saw that the calif's scimitar was unsheathed, and raised above his head, and he bent his neck to receive the stroke—pronouncing, at the same time, aloud, the confession of his faith. "There is no God but God, and Mohammed is the prophet of God." But the blow fell not, and Giafar felt like one recalled from the dead, when he heard his master's voice saying, "Speak on, Giafar; I will yet hear thee."

The prince lifted up his head from the dust. His face was calm and unmoved. Despair had well composed its lineaments, and he answered firmly. "I am guilty of this, my lord. He betrayed and deceived me, and I slew him. It was a rash act, yet he well deserved his fate; for he had violated the honour of the harem; and for this, if I merit death, I am ready to suffer it from thy hands," and he bent his head again before the calif's feet. Fierce and contending emotions struggled within the monarch's bosom, and under their influence, his frame trembled like a leaf shaken by the wind. He clutched his scimitar with a convulsive grasp, viewed for a moment its shining surface, cast a glance at the prostrate person of the prince, and then, as though afraid to trust the weapon within his hands, hurled it hastily from him, to the farthest end of the apartment. At the sound of the scimitar, as it fell clashing and clanging upon the floor, the prince looked up, and said, "Is my crime forgiven me, my lord? and do I owe my life to thy clemency?"

"Thou wilt drive me mad, Giafar. Why didst thou own this paltry crime, as though it were one I could not pardon? Was it thy purpose thus to torture me? Thou well knowest that I would forgive thee the death of a thousand slaves like this; for thou art," he added, moved to admiration, for a moment, by the prince's wonderful composure; "thou art, in bravery and firmness, the same Giafar that I once well loved. But why do I speak thus to a traitor? Thou art doubly dyed in ingratitude. Thou hast courage only to oppose, and firmness to withstand, thy master. But, answer me—is it thy custom to shed blood in the rich kiosk, and punish guilt in the chambers of thy retirement? Why, too, hast thou kept his death a secret!"

"I smote him," answered the prince, "there, where I first discovered his treachery, upon the instant, in a burst of anger; and was it strange, my lord, that I should seek to hide such dishonour from the world?"

"I grant it may be as thou sayst. Yet there has been another victim to thy suspicions—a female slave, one whom thou art said to have once loved. For what was she punished?"

"Was her name Khatoun, my lord?" inquired the prince.

"Ay," answered the calif. "I am not ignorant of the dark deeds that are done within the walls of thy palace."

"She was a partaker in Hassan's guilt, my lord, and well deserved to share his fate."

"I believe thee not," said the calif, angrily. "Thy tongue is steeped in falsehood. She knew of thy disobedience—this was her crime. She was a witness, as I doubt not, of thy guilt; and for this, wretch, was she slain."

"She was not slain, my lord," answered the prince, quickly.

"Thou liest, slave!" said Haroun, breaking forth into ungovernable rage, and seizing the poniard which he wore at his girdle; "by this hand, thou liest! The grass is not yet green over her grave. She sleeps her long sleep, by the southern wall of thy gardens upon the Tigris."

"That grave is tenantless," exclaimed the prince. "It was destined for yon traitor's body. Khatoun yet lives, my lord; thou mayst see, and speak with her, if thou wilt."

"God grant that thy words are truth!" exclaimed the monarch, rising and pacing the apartment; then striking his hand upon his agitated bosom, he added: "But if thou hast deceived me, thou shalt be torn by wild horses for this. I did not think there breathed a mortal who could move me thus—not even thou, Giafar, as thou wert once. And as thou wert, so shalt thou be again to me, if I find thee worthy. If not, if thou hast done me this wrong, woe to thy head! If thou art guilty, thou art deeply so; and for every step thou hast taken in treachery and deceit, a deadly wound shall be inflicted upon thy house. Thyself, thy father, thy brothers, shall all suffer; even she—thy wife, and, as I thought her once, my daughter—shall feel the weight of my vengeance. And, I charge thee, Giafar, if indeed thou hast not disobeyed me, keep that commandment well."

"Ah! my lord, recall it," interrupted the prince, prostrating himself before the feet of the calif. "It is the origin of all our sorrows. Thy bosom is now estranged from thy children, and all our happiest moments are poisoned by distrust and fear. The beauty and virtues of the princess, thy daughter, have not failed to enchant and enslave me. Wilt thou not recall that dire restriction!—wilt thou not give her to me again, and make me thy son indeed?" These words were uttered by the prince in an earnest and impassioned manner, and for the purpose rather of effectually quieting the suspicions of the calif, than through any hope that his prayer would be favourably received. He was not disappointed when he heard his master's reply.

"Thou askest in vain, Giafar. My purpose is unchangeable. See to it that thou swervest not from my commands."

"Thy wishes shall be law unto thy servant, though a life of care and disappointment be mine," answered the prince, in a tone of resignation.

"Ere night comes," said Haroun, "send hither that female slave. I would myself question her concerning her guilt; and come with her thyself, Giafar, I would have thee present at the interview. When thou returnest to thy house, change thy garments—cleanse thyself from all impurities, and prostrate in the dust, return thanks to the Most High, who has this day preserved thee from death. I myself owe these devotions to Heaven, and as much in alms as would feed the poor of the city for the space of seven days, for I have wellnigh done that which, if thou hast spoken truth, I had given my right hand to recall." Then bending himself in the posture of prayer, this superstitious and arbitrary, yet generous monarch, repeated the namaz of midday, adding, ere he arose, this prayer: "Oh sovereign Arbiter of celestial mercy and celestial vengeance! oh supreme Ruler of the hearts and minds of mortals! save us from the torments of the tomb[15] and from eternal fire! There is no God but God, and Mohammed is his prophet."

The prince had stooped by the side of his master, but rose not when their devotions were ended. His feelings had overpowered him. The energy which till now had supported him, seemed to have vanished with the danger. Mind and body were equally unnerved, and he remained for some moments with his forehead to the ground, like one in a dream. He was recalled to himself by the sound of the calif's voice.

"Arise, Giafar! let not the thoughts of the danger which thou hast escaped unman thee. If thou art guiltless, thy life is safe. Go, now, in peace."

"Am I deceived?" said Haroun, when Giafar had left his presence: "I know his art—skill, I have often called it. There breathes not a man in Persia who could deceive me, save himself. Yet what matters it? the return of the hakim will resolve all my doubts. Vengeance will be sure, though for a time delayed. Should he prove false, though a spirit from heaven should plead for him, it were in vain. But I well hope it is not so. 'Twill be a dark day, even for me, that day that dawns upon mine anger."

————

CHAPTER VIII.

Approach—'tis kindly done, My learned physician and a friend.

Sir Eustace de Grey.

In the mean time, Gabriel, the physician, was proceeding, with slow and unwilling steps, towards the abode of Prince Giafar. When he arrived at the outer entrance of the palace, at the accustomed signal a slave admitted him, to whom he showed the signet ring of the prince, and requested to be conducted to the presence of the princess. The slave looked upon it, pressed it to his forehead as a mark of recognition and reverence, and then beckoning the physician to follow him, led the way across a spacious court, up a flight of steps, and having traversed a long gallery, at last stopped before a closed door. He was about to knock for admission, but the physician restrained him. Some one within was reading. Gabriel hesitated to interrupt the study, or more probably, the devotion, of the person thus engaged; and he listened for a moment, and heard a female voice pronouncing the following verses from the Koran: "By the brightness of the morning, and by the night when it groweth dark, thy Lord doth not forsake thee, neither doth he hate thee. Truly, thy life to come shall be better than this present life; and Allah shall give thee a reward, with which thou shalt be well pleased. Did he not find thee an orphan, and hath be not taken care of thee? Did he not find thee in error, and hath he not guided thee into the truth? Did he not find thee poor, and hath he not enriched thee? Therefore oppress not the orphan, neither repulse the poor, but declare the goodness of the Lord." When the voice had ceased reading this beautiful and impressive chapter, Gabriel, having been announced, entered. The princess was seated near a window, veiled; and a female attendant, who had been reading at her feet, rose, and, at a sign from Abassa, left the chamber. The embarrassment of the hakim was evident as he approached the lady. He drew near, however, respectfully, and having made a grave obeisance, thus addressed her; "Most noble princess, health and peace be with thee! I am sent hither by thy father, the illustrious Commander of the Faithful. Shadows, he has heard, darken the fair mirror of thy health, I have come to inquire news thereof."

"Sit, learned hakim," said Abassa. "The presence of the physician is ever welcome in the chamber of the sick."

"Thrice happy is thy servant to bring his skill to thine aid; and he will ever prize it the more highly, if it can serve in aught to comfort and relieve the daughter of my most noble master, and one so worthy."

"It will be well bestowed," said the princess, "if it can call back the flush of health to my cheek, and give to this fainting frame that strength and elasticity which were once its own."

"And yet, if I judge aright," said the hakim, "the colour of the rose is upon thy cheek, although the veil which thou wearest in part conceals thy features."

" 'Tis often thus," said Abassa, and faintly smiling, she threw aside her veil, and left her fair face entirely exposed to the view of the hakim. "The colour comes at times upon my cheek, but like a restless truant leaves it soon."

"Thou art right, thou art right; thy face is now like marble," said the old man. "In truth a wondrous change. Thine eyes are languid and sunken, thy face is pale and emaciated, and has lost, I think, somewhat of its bright complexion. Now that I note intently, it bears those marks which I have seen oft inflicted by care and sorrow. These are the lot of many poor, many unfortunate, who want those things whereof thou possessest abundance—whose very bread is the wages of toil and beggary. But how can such guests find entrance at the gates of this palace?"

"Does sleep always alight upon the softest pillow?" said the princess; "or content dwell unceasingly in richly curtained chambers?"

"Not so, in truth, not so," replied the hakim; "yet there are many enjoyments which wealth and rank may obtain for their possessors, a small share of which would gladden the hearts of the poor."

"Yet how many wants are there, which wealth cannot supply; and when these are felt, its gilding may conceal but cannot alleviate our sorrow. A draught of absinth, methinks, would seem more bitter, when drained from a rich goblet, than from the earthen vessel of the poor. Yes, happy are they who dwell in the valley of obscurity. Clouds and storms gather about the high places of fortune, and the descent from thence is fearful. What says the poet: 'There are stars without number in the firmament, but the sun and the moon alone are eclipsed.' "

"I cannot gainsay what thou hast said," replied the physician, moved by the melancholy tone in which she had spoken. "Wealth and enjoyment ill teach us how to bear the coming of misfortune, and care lays its heaviest hand upon that bosom, which before has never felt its touch. Far may it keep from thee, most noble lady!"

"With thy permission, learned hakim?" said the princess, offering to cover her face with her veil. He bowed assent, and then placing his long white fingers upon the arm which the princess at his request held out to him, he proceeded to count the pulses as they hurried through her feverish frame. This process was conducted with wonderful gravity and deliberation. The wise man's head was thrown to one side, his brows were knit, and his eyes, scarcely visible between their nearly closed lids, were peering steadily into vacancy. The corners of his mouth were drawn down to their utmost extent, the under lip advancing far before the upper, while in the many wrinkling lines thus formed upon his visage, seemed to dwell a superhuman sagacity. The unoccupied hand was at intervals passed over his countenance, as though to settle its features more securely into their unnatural, though sapient expression. Occasionally he would bend his ear close to the pulse which he was counting, as though by that organ he expected to gain some important and necessary information. But while the mind of the worthy hakim seemed thus occupied about his exterior, it was in truth differently and actively employed. With his accustomed care, he had given himself time to ascertain what share of that irregularity which the pulse of his fair patient manifested, should be attributed to his own presence and purpose, and what might duly be considered as owing to the disturbed condition of her bodily health. At last he seemed satisfied. "Quick, quick—how unlike mine own!" he muttered, placing his fingers upon his own wrist; "yet, by the beard of Hippocrates! my pulse surely beats not as it is wont! What is it that drives the blood through my veins at so strange a rate?"

It is unnecessary, however, to describe this whole scene. It will be sufficient to say that it was conducted with all that solemn gravity, that pretension to mysterious and wonderful wisdom, which may truly be called oriental, an appellation not inapplicable to some professors of the art at this present day. "Dost thou watch under the night air, or sleep beneath the rays of the baleful moon?" said the physician, after a silence of some moments.

"When at my husband's villa upon the Tigris, I often watched the stars and studied the wonders of the heavens. It was my delight to do this, and often midnight found me lingering thus employed. It has not been so of late." A sigh came from her bosom as she spoke of those hours. All was summer then. But now the winds of winter were howling around that sweet kiosk, and the storms of fortune, more pitiless, were sweeping across her own once happy heart.

"The luxurious life and sumptuous fare of the present race," proceeded the hakim, "weaken the frame, and are disease's most fruitful source. The time has been when a few dates, and a portion of barley bread, have composed the meals even of the Commander of the Faithful—"but now, how different is it!"

"My meals are ever frugal," said Abassa; "indeed, my peevish appetite rejects even our most common viands."

"May it not be that the unwholesome air of this crowded city affects thee?"

"I have thought often of that," she replied; "at least, I am sure I should be happier away from Bagdad."

"Sayst thou so!" was the reply. "Travel and change, then, would restore thee. I will speak of this to thy father." During a short silence which followed, Gabriel walked twice or thrice across the chamber, with irresolution pictured most strongly in his countenance; at last, however, he seated himself upon the carpet, close to the princess, and spoke, hesitatingly, as follows: "I will not trifle longer with thee, lady. Upon an unpleasing duty have I come, and it is meet that thou shouldst know its purport. I know that which I would give half my wealth and skill to unlearn; but I know all which thou wouldst wish concealed."

Abassa's head drooped, and after a short pause, she replied, "The treasures of knowledge are thine, learned hakim. I have little art to oppose to thy skill. If thine errand is accomplished, go in peace."

Gabriel was moved by the mildness of her reply.

A tear glittered in his eye, and he answered, "I cannot depart, and leave thee sorrowing thus. I stand like a reed shaken by the blast; I would serve thee—I would remove, if it were possible, thy misfortunes; but duty, safety—"

"Hesitate not, good hakim. Let not the griefs of one who has no claim upon thy compassion affect thee. Thou mayst bring destruction down upon thine own head, but canst not lighten, by the smallest atom, the weight of sorrow that is to fall upon me."

"I could—by this hand, I could! Doubt it not! my means are less limited than thou thinkest. Thou mayst yet live. Follow the counsel which I will give thee, and thou mayst still escape this danger."

"Escape!" exclaimed the princess—"can it be? Are safety and happiness yet in store for us here below? But deceive me not," she added, distrustfully. "Trifle not with one whose life depends upon thy words."

"Thou art fair, lady," said the kindhearted man, weeping; "thou art beautiful as the day; and the graces of thy mind surpass even those of thy body. I cannot see thee perish. I know the duty I owe to thy father, yet I am a Christian, and my creed teaches me to assist the unfortunate. I cannot see the light of the world extinguished, the Rose of Persia torn and scattered in the dust, when a word from me—yes, but a word, would revive and rescue it."

"Thou hast sojourned long enough in my father's court to learn its flatteries," said Abassa. "Sweet words are like the rich confection, which the physician uses to disguise some nauseous drug. This is needless—I am not a child, and so thy remedy is salutary, I can take it, be it bitter as it may."

"It is both salutary and sure," replied the old man; "and thou shalt know it, though thy father's scimitar be suspended over my neck. Listen to me!"

The princess listened.

"Medicines of rare and wondrous efficacy are in my hands. Take of them, as I shall direct thee, and all which thou wouldst wish concealed may for ever remain so." Abassa seemed not to comprehend the purport of the physician's words. She cast an anxious, inquiring look upon the hakim's countenance, who repeated them more clearly, and added, "Fear them not; a child might take of them, and be unharmed."

The princess was much agitated, and it was some time before she could compose herself sufficiently to reply. When she did so, her speech was interrupted by sobs, and her voice was inexpressibly sad and sweet. "How dark it is! thou hast thrown a torch's light upon my path which thine own breath has extinguished. I have asked for life, and thou hast given me death. I have wished for happiness, and thou hast proffered to me crime. Thy trade has made thee cruel, hakim."

"I cruel!" exclaimed the old man. "Not so, by Mohammed! Thou mistakest. I would have thee live—I would have thee happy."

"I think not, that with a settled purpose, thou wouldst wound my soul. It were unjust to think so. Speak no more of it! Urge me not to that which would render life a torment, and thought an utter curse! Draw not one, who has already much wherewith to reproach herself, still further from the path of duty."

"And that leads thee to—"

"To death—I know it," said the princess, finishing the sentence which the physician had not the heart to conclude. "Better to die, than live with such a weight of guilt upon my bosom. Even now, expecting the approach of fearful suffering, I am not destitute of consolation. There are some who yet love me, and in whose smile I find life, even when death has taken hold upon my right hand; and if Allah will look kindly upon me, and forgive my faults, I think I could die content. Yet, it is hard to part with him. To give up life were nothing."

"Yet pause one moment, ere thou dost reject mine aid. There is, in my proffer, evil to no one, and mercy to all. Thyself, thy husband, and his whole race—thy father, every one that is dear to thee, must suffer, if my counsel is rejected. No one, not even the unconscious and innocent cause of all these evils can escape. I would have thee live, as well for thy father's happiness as for thine own. I would not have his honour tarnished, or his peace destroyed, by the punishment which his ungovernable anger will lead him to execute upon all."

"My poor father!" murmured the princess, weeping. "Giafar and I will sleep in the tomb sweetly, but what a gloomy remnant of life will be his. When the storm of his indignation shall have passed, and swept us all away, who is there that can supply that place in his bosom, once occupied by his friend and daughter? Tell me that, good hakim. Must he be wretched? will there be none to support him? Tell me that, and I will answer thee more firmly."

"There will be none then living that can do so. Remorse will imbitter, if it does not shorten his lonely life, and Islamism will lose her firmest protector."

The unhappy princess seemed moved by an agitation that threatened to tear her slender frame to pieces. After enduring this in silence, she fell forward with her face upon her lap. Gabriel thought she had swooned, and raising her, threw aside her veil. She was deadly pale, but consciousness had not forsaken her. The kind-hearted hakim now threw himself with his face at her feet, and poured out all the ardour of his soul, in one earnest and impassioned entreaty that she would listen to his counsel. The lady trembled, gasped for breath, and for a moment her resolution seemed to waver, and the old man expected exultingly her assent. But her countenance became gradually firmer, her eye increased in brightness, until it shone with lustre almost supernatural, and she replied, in tones strangely thrilling,

"Thou canst not tempt me. If my happiness here were alone concerned, I would follow the counsel thou givest me, and for the sake of others be wretched. But my thoughts are above this world. This life is to me a point; but there is a vast region of existence before me, and I would not separate myself for ever from all that I love. My support under the evils which I am now suffering, and those which are yet to be my lot, is the thought of that paradise where we may all meet. Stay me not, then! Oblivion will there hide the sorrows of this life, and my father, stripped of his anger, will become reconciled to his child."

"Thou art right, lady, thou art right," exclaimed the old man, much affected. "Thou art framed for heaven, and perchance thou wouldst not be detained—thou wouldst not linger from thy home. This earth is no place for one so beautiful and pure."

"I think not so," replied Abassa; "this world is fair. To dwell here with those we love, at peace, untroubled by the storms of passion that make a chaos of man's bosom—this were a foretaste of heaven's joys, nay, paradise itself."

"I speak not," said the sage, "of the pleasures promised by thy Prophet—I speak not of gardens of perpetual delight watered by spicy rivers, of sweetest sounds, of fruits, of fairest forms, which make up the paradise of the Moslem—but of that pure heaven which the faith that I profess offers to the sincere followers of its tenets. There, no care nor passion can enter the soul; they are shut out for ever from that blessed abode. There, is no father and no son—no husband and no wife—all earthly ties are forgotten; the passions that agitate this clay are all exchanged for love, infinite and universal—love untainted with the weakness of mortality, and unalloyed by its frailty and fear."

The princess shook her head, a sad smile touched her features, and she replied,

"Tell me not of it, hakim. Thy heaven I cannot understand. I can feel benevolence for all, but not that love, that sweet relationship which binds me to some few on earth. If there is aught within this soul which tells me that it is eternal, it whispers that its best emotions, above all, its love, shall equally endure. Existence would be wearisome, methinks, even though clothed in immortality, were it divested of that affection which has rendered it so happy here."

"Thou wilt convert me to thy creed, should I talk longer with thee," said the hakim. "Yet must thou perish? While looking on thee, methinks I would with mine own life redeem thine from destruction. Can it not be? Stay! lend me thy hand once more."

The hakim then placing his fingers upon the pulse of the princess, repeated the process which has been before described, and with equal care and deliberation. To judge from the hesitation and doubt which were expressed in his features, the results to which the sage now arrived seemed by no means so conclusive as before, and when he spake his words confirmed this conjecture. They were slowly uttered, and interrupted occasionally by mysterious ejaculations, which, to the ears of the uninitiated, might have given great weight to his words.

"The blood courses speedily through these veins—thy face is pale and emaciated—thy frame languid and appetite impaired. What may all these import? Without doubt, many things. The changes of the air, the influence of the moon, and study, if protracted and wearisome, would all affect thee thus. I may have erred. I have, at least, evinced my folly and presumption, in thus hastily declaring what I have said of thee. I know nothing. I am a child in mine art. I know nothing, and can say nothing which may disturb thy peace."

"Think well of it, good Gabriel," said the princess. "Pause, ere thou incurrest that very danger from which thou wouldst in vain attempt to extricate another. Thou knowest my father's temper. He will ill brook disobedience from thee, or trifling in this matter. Thou mayst destroy thyself, but my fate is inevitable; thou canst not avert it."

"Now, God forbid!" ejaculated the old man, fear and compassion blending together in his countenance, and giving it an expression of complete irresolution. "I have told the calif how hard a duty he hath assigned me: I have told him that I was unequal to the task; yet he hath driven me to it. Am I a beast of burden, that I should be forced thus to my labour? Should Wisdom be compelled? Is not the mind free? I will not think, then, otherwise than it may suit my purpose. I think thee innocent, and I will so avow unto thy father."

"This will not profit us, good hakim," said the princess. "Thy kindness may avert destruction for a time; but will not my father's anger visit us with a heavier doom at last? Thou art perilling thine own safety thus to act."

"Each day is as a year to thee," replied the physician. "Let thy father's jealousy be once allayed, and all may yet be well. By my counsel thou shalt retire from Bagdad, to thy husband's villa, or elsewhere, for the unwholesome air of the city suits thee not. There thine ills may be all removed. There the colour will come again to thy cheek, and health will revisit thy weakened frame. As for mine own safety, if I heed it not, fairest princess, why shouldst thou? Besides, shall I not tell the calif all I know of thee? I shall tell him that the brightness of his fair daughter's eye is dimmed, that her face is pale, and that the current of life runs feverishly; and what more? nothing—nothing but these. If, in the pride of my art, and through presumptuous folly, I hastily judged beyond this, it must pass for arrogance and error. Methought I had been wiser. My years are many, and I should have learned, ere this, how deceitful, at times, are all the resources of an art, which yet, understand me, lady, yet merits the appellation of divine. Thou knowest my purpose. Thy servant knoweth nothing, and can say nothing that may prejudice thy safety. Yet soft!" he added, lowering his voice, and looking carefully around the apartment. "I have a strange tale to tell, which may concern thy husband nearly."

"Say on, good Gabriel," exclaimed Abassa, alarmed at the ominous expression of the hakim's countenance.

"Let no word of this escape thy lips, save to the prince, thy husband; for my life were of short space should the Commander of the Faithful know that I have spoken of this thing. Ere the summer had passed away, one evening, while seated in my house, I was aroused by the entrance of two slaves bearing a leathern sack. Having deposited their burden upon the floor, they retired ere I had time to question them. After their departure, I undid the sack, and to my surprise and horror, found within the head and trunk of a slave, apparently just executed. I had not recovered from the astonishment into which I had been thrown by this occurrence, when the calif stood before me. He was evidently much disturbed by anger, and abruptly commanded me to sew the head carefully upon the body of the deceased, and to embalm the corpse, so that it might, if necessary, be preserved for many months. It was in vain to expostulate, and I proceeded to the duty assigned me. While thus employed, I noted carefully the countenance of the victim; and though the violent and sudden death which he had suffered had much distorted his features, yet I recognised in them a favourite slave of thy husband. After the performance of my duty, the calif, having enjoined silence upon me, departed, and the two slaves again entered, and bore away their horrid burden."

" 'Tis strange! what may this mean?" said Abassa.

"I cannot tell," replied the hakim. "I ventured not to question the Commander of the Faithful, for his countenance was dark with anger. Since then, I have heard no more of this mysterious transaction. Inform the prince of what I have told thee. He may divine the purpose of the calif, and prepare himself against the danger. But breathe no word of this to mortal, save himself."

"Fear me not, hakim," said the princess—"fear me not! I tremble—strange horrors surround us. Yet let fortune deal with us as it will, thy kindness can never be forgotten."

"May it effectually serve thee," answered the physician. "Be not, however, too sanguine in thy hope. The calif is stern and subtle. His eyes will search this bosom even to the piercing of its inmost recesses. I will endure his questioning with what firmness I may; and wrapped in the dark mantle of my mysterious art, it will go hard if I do not evade his scrutiny. Farewell!—peace be with thee! Remain assured my promise shall not fail."

"I am satisfied that it will not," said Abassa. "Thou hast dealt compassionately with me, and though thy counsel has been in part unthinking, and somewhat harsh, yet it was kindly meant, and I thank thee."

"Doubt it not—doubt it not!" replied the hakim. "Heaven's blessing be upon thee."

Having thus spoken, after the customary salutation, the kind-hearted Gabriel withdrew.

————

CHAPTER IX.

I will despair, and be at enmity with cozening hope.

Richard II.

With a trembling and weary spirit Giafar returned from the calif's palace to his own home. His fortitude and self-possession had well availed him in his interview with the Commander of the Faithful, but they had been severely tested. The terrific trial had depressed his courage, and had exhausted his powers of endurance. Mind and body were equally harassed, and it was in a condition every way unfit for such a crisis, that he found himself in the presence of the princess, to learn from her lips the result of an interview upon which depended life, happiness, everything. He had entered the chamber unheard, and stood for some moments by her side ere she perceived him. Her face was buried in her robe, but the sobs which were breaking in frequent succession from her bosom, confirmed his worst fears. "All is known!" exclaimed Abassa, as soon as she was aware of his presence; and throwing herself upon his bosom, she fastened her arms about his neck, weeping bitterly, and through a strange weakness, tears were dropping down the cheeks of the proud Moslem.

After a few moments the princess subdued her emotion, and at Giafar's request related the particulars of her interview with Gabriel the physician. To this account he listened with earnestness. Life hung upon her lips. He trembled as he heard—'twas as he had feared, and now there was no hope. His interest deepened, however, as she proceeded, until she spoke of that counsel which the hakim had given her, and of his assurance of their safety if it were followed; when he seemed to drink in the words as they fell from her lips. A shade of disappointment passed across his brow, as she recounted her refusal of the old man's advice—yet it was momentary—by an instantaneous, though visible effort, he banished it from his countenance. A smile of triumph played about his mouth—his eye kindled as she related the strange tale respecting the dead Hassan—that snare, at least, had been shunned. But this feeling of exultation vanished quickly, and when she had concluded, he exclaimed, in accents of despair, "It is so, then!—nothing can save us now—there is no hope!"

"How sayst thou, dearest Giafar?" answered the princess. "Is there none? The promise of the hakim—his pledge of secrecy and concealment—"

"Put no trust in it," he replied. "His courage is not equal to his kindness, and the calif would tear the secret from his bosom, were it locked by thrice his cunning."

"Thou art strangely moved," said Abassa. "Thy brow is damp, and thy cheek pale. The emotions that disturb thy mind so fearfully, preclude, perhaps, the cool and even exercise of thy judgment. Let it not be thus, my lord. Recall thy fortitude—bring back thy firmness and thy hope, which seem so suddenly to have deserted thee."

" 'Tis as thou sayst, Abassa," returned the prince: "hope and courage have departed from me. Yet wonder not—I have endured that to-day which must have crushed them, had all my nerves been steel. My judgment likewise may have suffered in the conflict; yet little art is necessary to know that the purpose of the hakim will not avail us in our present peril. Buried in his books, and unused to the rude contact of a jarring world, even if he has the craft, he wants the fortitude which might bear him through the trial. There was a way—but it matters not—thou hast rejected it."

Abassa seemed not to notice the concluding words of the prince's reply, but answered, "Thou canst not tell, Giafar. If the spirit of a brave and skilful man is at times shaken and borne to earth, so, thou well knowest, is the courage of the peaceful hakim—ay, of a very woman, often exalted to a level even with that of the bravest. For the truth of Gabriel, I would answer with my life, and for his firmness—"

"Thou needst not speak of it," interrupted the prince. "Cast a bulrush into the swift Tigris, and if that feeble obstacle can arrest the current of the stream, then will the firmness of Gabriel Bact Jeschoua effectually oppose thy father's anger. I tell thee, my dearest life, within this hour I have stood in the calif's presence, armed with all the constancy that I could assume—and thou well knowest there are few that can compete with me in this. I have spoken falsehood with a face unmoved and innocent. Yet all has been wellnigh in vain. Confession has been upon my lips, and the thoughts of thy safety have alone repressed its utterance. Had mine own worthless life been all that was at stake, I should have yielded it. Twice has thy father's scimitar been lifted over my head, and as often has his hand been disarmed by my unvarying composure. Thinkest thou that the mild Gabriel—the peaceful and unskilled hakim, can endure such scrutiny?"

"I fear it is as thou sayst," replied the princess, trembling, as she saw those hopes removed which, but a moment since, had filled her bosom with encouragement. "What, then, is left us?"

"Nothing but despair," was the reply; and they were then silent for a moment, the princess weeping in his arms, and Giafar shaken by agitation that he had not the power to control. At last he spoke, looking upon her in deep anguish, and in a voice that emotion rendered weak and faltering. "My best beloved Abassa, from me have come thy sorrows. By my rashness art thou plunged into this misery. Why art thou so meek? Upbraid me—reproach me as the author of thy ruin, and I will bear it better. Yet, dearest, I swear by our misfortunes, that I have erred through love alone. Pride and ambition have had no part in this our fate; and were it not for thy sufferings, and the destruction of those as innocent as thyself, I would not murmur—perhaps I should not regret. But I cannot think, without self-reproach and horror, upon the fate of all that is most dear to me. Thou wouldst shudder hadst thou heard, as I did, the cruel threat which fell from thy father's lips to-day. My life—the lives of all my race, must be sacrificed. Even thou, mine own beloved! thy youth, thy loveliness and worth will not save thee—solitary imprisonment—perhaps death itself!"

"Oh! he will surely give me death," interrupted Abassa; "I could not bear separation from thee. There will be no eye then to smile upon me—no voice to encourage—no bosom to shelter and protect me. This would be worse than death."

"Rend not my soul by the recital of thy griefs. This is the sharpest shaft fate has within her quiver. Oh! if I alone might suffer—Allah hear me!"—and the unhappy Giafar prostrated himself in the attitude of prayer—"upon my head be all the punishment—all the destruction—but spare, oh spare the innocent!"

Abassa had bowed herself at his side, and was offering up a silent prayer that she might share the fate of her lord, that death itself might not separate them. "Yet, after all, we should not despair," exclaimed the prince, rising from his posture of supplication. "Let us not desert ourselves. The counsel of the learned Gabriel affords as yet a hope. Saidst thou not that he could save us from destruction? Tell me once more?—there may be yet time."

The princess looked upon him tremblingly, and answered, "I have told thee all, my best beloved! I have told thee all—there is no hope but in Heaven; for thou knowest, Giafar," she continued, fearing and anticipating his reply, "that though I would give my life for thine, yet I cannot do that which would separate us for ever. By such a crime, I should be unworthy of thee, and should look for abhorrence from thee instead of love. If wretchedness, if death itself, must come to me, let them at least find me innocent."

"Yet thou shouldst look, ere thou castest away our last, our only chance for safety. Owe we not something to others, who have not participated in our disobedience, but must share our punishment? Be not hasty, but think well of thy life and mine own—though 'tis worth naught save for thee: ponder on the fate of my father, brothers, nay, our whole house."

"I have thought of all this," said Abassa, violently agitated; "and you know not how my bosom has been shaken. But, I have resolved, I think—yes, resolved to die—ay, and—'tis horrible to think it!—to be unmoved even by thy fate, and the sufferings of those most dear to thee. You gaze upon me in wonder—you think me cruel—mad, but I am not. No—am I so in wishing to spend eternity with thee? I would bear long and patiently, the sharpest stings of misfortune, to avert this blow, while there remained to me a surety that all would pass away, and that with thee, at last, I should be happy; but ask me not to err thus; knowing, as thou dost, that such sin must part us for ever."

"Nay, but hear me! Listen to me a moment."

"I will not listen to thee. Speak not of it. Urge me not," she exclaimed, in an agony of fear. "If thou forsakest me, whither shall I turn? If I have loved thee too well—if I have transgressed the commands of my father (may Allah bless him), still these faults Heaven may pardon, since I have repented, and am punished here. But, assist me, Giafar! let not the thoughts of life, of all that is dear, shake my purpose. Let me not lose thee for ever; comfort me with thine assurances—say Heaven has yet in store some happiness for the unfortunate, say—"

"Yes, brightest star, we shall meet in paradise!" exclaimed the prince, raised above this world, above all thoughts of friends, of life, or death, by the sweet, yet unbending fortitude of his patient wife.

Abassa's weak frame could not support her longer in this trying scene. She had swooned under the violence of her emotions, but ere consciousness deserted her, these words had fallen upon her ear. She was sensible of the kiss which Giafar's lips had imprinted upon her forehead, and a sweet smile was visible upon her senseless features. The prince bore her to a couch in an adjoining apartment, and having seen signs of returning animation, left her to the care of her attendants.

"I will not—no! I cannot urge her to it," he exclaimed, when he had returned to the chamber where their interview had been held. "Shame on my want of manhood. If she can meet death with such calmness, cannot I? Oh! if my death were all, I would welcome it. But she, whom I love better than life—my aged father—my noble brothers—all to suffer; 'tis too horrible! my soul sickens at it; ruin, utter ruin, and brought upon them by me, on whom they look with pride and affection; whom they esteem as the prop and support of our noble house! I shall drag them with me in my fall. Ah! I have been to blame. I should have remembered that the lives of others were in my keeping, and not have thrown them thus away. To fly—to resist—to crawl to the feet of the calif, and implore his mercy! mercy for all but me! Oh! that with this aching head I could purchase safety for them all. I once hoped to die under the shadow of swords, amid the pushing with lances, and the ringing of steel-headed arrows, with the standard of the crescent waving its folds above me. Now, I must beg to fall ignominiously, if I may fall alone. I shall never more quench my flaming sword in the blood of the infidel. My steed will never bear me again over the rich harvest of this right hand—'changing his amber hoofs to the red cornelian,' in the dripping blood of foes. Farewell, renown! it has been the breath of my nostrils, and I thought to be embalmed in its good odour. But I must die a traitor's death, and with a traitor's name. Allah, in his mercy, aid me! I am indeed lost!"

The countenance and mien of the unhappy prince gave unerring testimony to the crowd of wild thoughts and despairing fears which were thronging into his mind. Now, the rushing blood dyed his features with crimson, and his eyes shot forth fierce and unnatural fire; then, in an instant, as though by some secret mechanism, his face became blanched, and like marble. Yet, in the midst of all his wretchedness, when Giafar thought for whom and for what he was suffering, a shade of composure came upon him. When he reflected—if that might be called reflection which passed through a mind so suffering and so convulsed—that the joys of moments past were far above the horrors of the present, and that he could not suffer to the degree in which he had been blessed, something like triumph was visible in his features, as lifting up his head, and straightening his limbs, he paced, with a firm step, the apartment. And in this mood, it may be, that he would have remained, had his fate alone occupied his thoughts. But accumulated terrors, with a mountain's weight, bow his soul to earth. He cannot reflect, he cannot act, he can do nothing but despair. His courage is gone from him—his ready skill and daring fail him when he has most need. The lion's heart and arm are covered with the coat of the timorous deer. Will he not turn at bay ere the hounds fasten on him?

————

CHAPTER X.

It was a fearful light to see Such high resolve and constancy, In one so young and fair.

Marmion.

The weary hours of that gloomy day passed heavily to the young prince. They lingered by him in their flight, as if, fearing that his moments were drawing to a close, they would fain prolong his wretchedness, and keep him from the sweet sleep which awaited him, when time and its troubles should have ceased to agitate his aching heart. If, for a few moments, he was enabled to call off his thoughts from trials which were past, it was only to fix them upon others more severe which were yet in store for him. He gathered no confidence from the assurances of the hakim; he would not dream of hope; but in that stern insensibility with which a Moslem so often resigns himself to the decrees of fate, he awaited the doom which seemed inevitable. Gloomily and in silence he thus remained until evening began to draw near, looking upon every present moment as perhaps his last. But the fading light, which reminded him of the passage of the hours, revived, in some degree, his hopes. He had expected ere this to be visited with his master's vengeance. It warned him, also, that the time appointed by the calif for the questioning of the slave Khatoun had wellnigh passed. His heart drooped when he thought of the trial which awaited that sweet girl. But shall he hesitate now? No—his all, and more than all was at stake; and though the chances were fearfully against him, he resolved to play, with a careful and even hand, the game upon which this rich venture depended. Bracing his courage, he proceeded, though with a heavy heart, to prepare the young slave for her interview with the stern and suspicious calif, and escort her to the palace.

He found her in the same solitary apartment which she had so long occupied, and from which she had not wished to be removed until after her interview with the calif, when she should have redeemed her fault, as she expressed it, and deserved the favour of her who was to be her future mistress. Her feebleness seemed to have increased rather than diminished. Her eyes were glassy and dilated, and their dark brightness contrasted strongly with the extreme pallor of her skin, giving to her countenance an expression wild and almost unearthly in its character. Her face seemed more emaciated than it was when he saw her the evening before, and her pale lips were compressed firmly together. Her breath was drawn quietly, and at times a deep inspiration or sob interrupted its regularity. She seemed as though she had been severely racked by a storm of vehement and convulsing emotions, from which she had come out, marked, indeed, by their power, but preserving her firmness, and the resolution which had been so assailed.

"The trial is awaiting thee, Khatoun," said the prince, approaching her. "Art thou prepared?"

"I am, my lord," she replied, without turning her eyes upon him. They were fixed vacantly in air.

"Look upon me, Khatoun. Thou hast much changed since I last saw thee. Why is this? Dost thou repent thy purpose?"

She bent her look towards him, and gazing in his face with a gleaming wildness, she replied,

"Oh! I have had a fearful conflict. The passage to the tomb were light to its terrors. But I repent not. No! I am resolved. Do you not think," she continued, glaring upon him with a countenance in which a frightful sternness was as strongly depicted as such an expression could be in features so soft and feminine—"do you not think I am resolved?"

"Speak not so strangely," said the prince, supporting her frail form against his bosom. "My soul is pierced with thy grief. I cannot bear to see thee thus."

"There, then!" she exclaimed; the rigidity which dwelt upon her features melting into a flood of tears. "But it has unnerved me. I was firm. but now—ready to tell that tale—but—"

"Recall thy fortitude," said Giafar, interrupting her; "but not with it that strange gloom which but a moment since sat upon thy face. The calif even now awaits thy coming. Mind it not; the trial will not equal thy fears, or, at the worst, it will soon be past. Thou wilt this night rest sweetly after thy generous task, the sweeter for the recollection of thy fidelity and kindness."

"Shall I sleep thus, my lord?—and to-night? I had a thought like this. My griefs will all be ended then, to-night, thou sayst?"

"Doubtless they will, Khatoun. This trial over, and it shall be my care that no sorrow nor misfortune shall approach thee. In the fairest balls of my palace, and in the presence of my grateful wife, thy life shall pass calmly away, untroubled, undisturbed—unless it be"—he added, and he trembled as he spoke—"by the blow which shall fall with a heavier weight upon me and upon my house. Thou shalt not fail of a shelter while one of my name and race lives to protect thee."

"I had forgotten," she exclaimed, observing his emotion. "Come, I am ready. The night is here—the hours are passing. Come, we may be too late."

"Wilt thou be firm?" inquired the prince.

"Do not fear me—I shall," was the reply.

Giafar, trembling, supported that trembling girl to her litter. He placed her therein with kind and sedulous care, and having directed the slaves to proceed at a slow pace towards the royal palace, he turned his own steps thither also. His courage wavered as he entered his master's presence, but was instantly reassured by the open brow with which the calif greeted him, and by the expression of satisfaction that was diffused over his stern features. He found him in earnest conversation with Gabriel Bact Jeschoua. Haroun turned for a moment from his discourse with the physician, to welcome the prince.

"Thou art come in time," he said. "Is the slave with thee, Giafar?"

"She waits without, my lord."

"It is well. I doubt not but thou hast spoken truly, hakim," said the calif, continuing the discourse in which he had been engaged when the prince entered; "thou wouldst not trifle with me, as I think."

The face of the old man was clothed in imperturbable gravity. No emotion, not the slightest shade of feeling, flitted across his solemn and sagacious visage, or disturbed, in the most minute degree, the formality of his settled features.

"Far be it from me, may it please the Commander of the Faithful," he replied, "to deceive thee in the smallest matter, still less in a case of such magnitude, such importance. Even if I would do this, it were perilous, in sooth."

"Thy wisdom does not much mislead thee, Gabriel," replied the calif, with a grim smile. "Thy rarest drugs would serve thee little, if, knowing otherwise, thou hast deceived me in this thing."

"Heaven forbid I should do this!" exclaimed the hakim.

"Enough. I believe it not." The calif now addressed the prince. "The slave is without, thou sayst, Giafar? Gabriel, admit her. Knows she the purpose for which we have commanded her presence?"

"I have imparted it to her, my lord."

"Thou needst not have done this, Giafar."

At this moment, Gabriel returned, followed by Khatoun. She was closely veiled, and came forward with a trembling and faltering step, supporting herself with difficulty, until she reached a low seat, upon which she sank down, with evident marks of exhaustion and debility.

"Let the slave remove her veil," said the Commander of the Faithful.

Khatoun hesitated a moment, and then endeavoured to obey the command of the calif, but was apparently unable. Her hands trembled, and after a few vain attempts, they fell helpless at her side.

"Remove thy veil, Khatoun," said the prince; "it is the Commander of the Faithful bids thee."

The mild tone in which this was uttered sounded harshly in the ears of the calif, and he darted a piercing glance upon Giafar, as though he would read his inmost soul. Khatoun, however, seemed encouraged, for with a struggling effort she complied, and drew aside the veil which concealed her face with a heavy sigh, as though she had completed a task which had called forth all her powers. The sight of her features, so pale, and so mild in their expression, diverted the calif's thoughts from a train into which suspicion was about to lead them, and addressing the prince,

"Is she ill?" he inquired.

"She is, my lord. The imprisonment which she has suffered has preyed severely upon her health."

"And remorse, Giafar—remorse! Or is she so hardened in her guilt that she has not felt its sting?"

"It may be remorse, my lord," was the prince's hesitating reply.

"Cast thine eyes around thee," said the calif, now turning to Khatoun, "and answer if thou seest any in this presence to whom thou owest duty and fidelity?"

"I do, may it please the calif," was the reply, "Thyself, my lord, the Commander of all the Faithful, to whom, as a sovereign ruler, and as the chief imam of our religion, homage and reverence are due; also—"

"Well, proceed," said Haroun, for she hesitated.

"Also, the Prince Giafar, my master, to whom, as a faithful slave, I owe all honour and affection."

"Thou hast well spoken," said Haroun; "and if thine actions had in everything comported with what thou hast uttered, thou wouldst not now stand before me accused of a base and loathsome crime. When thou didst first become an inmate of thy master's palace, didst thou not then feel towards him those affections which it was thy duty to cherish? Look upon him! Giafar, look upon the slave!"

Khatoun gazed upon the prince calmly; but it was evidently with an effort that Giafar bent his eyes upon her mild features. There was nothing upbraiding in their expression; yet self-reproach and sorrow rendered him for a moment unable to endure the sad yet firm gaze which she fixed upon him. The calif noticed this, and exclaimed, eying the prince with a keen glance, "Dost thou not hear me, Giafar? Avert not thine eyes, but look upon her as I command thee."

Recalled to his firmness by these words, the prince looked upon her with steadfastness.

"Answer me, Khatoun, didst thou not love him then?"

"I did, my lord," she replied, with a faint smile, "I did love him once!"

"And at that time the prince bestowed upon thee his favour and presence, and graced thee indeed with all which, as a favourite inmate of his harem, thou couldst rightfully expect from his affection?"

"In truth, I thought so then, my lord."

"In possession, then, of all that a slave could wish, the esteem and love of thy master, thou hast descended to the vile crime with which thou art charged. Light and false of heart, thou hast given thyself to a slave, and betrayed thus basely thine own honour, and defiled thy master's."

Khatoun was violently agitated. She trembled as though the words of the calif had the power of an ague upon her frame, but made no reply.

"Art thou not guilty of this?" resumed the calif, in a tone of severity. "Hast thou not thus erred?"

She placed her hand upon her bosom, and bowed her head in silence.

"Nay, speak aloud," exclaimed Haroun, yet more angrily. "Let me hear thy voice. Thou mightst well blush to commit such baseness; but if shame could not deter thee from this crime, it shall not shield thee from avowing it. Raise thy head, and own without delay thy guilt, or assert, if with truth thou canst, thine innocence."

The young girl cast a wild and imploring glance upon Giafar, and the sight of his agitation recalled her firmness. He was shaken by various passions, pity, self-reproach, and fear, and their influence showed itself in the changing colour of his cheek, and in the restlessness and tremour which pervaded every portion of his frame; tokens, as she read them, of apprehension and distrust of her fidelity. Collecting all her energies, and speaking with all the steadiness which her weak voice could assume, she replied, "I am guilty of this crime!"

"And with Hassan—a slave of thy master's harem?"

"Even so, my lord—even with that slave," she answered, in a tone yet firmer.

The transient fortitude which had supported her vanished when she had thus spoken, and the flush which had for a moment tinged her cheek, gave place to a deathlike paleness, and she buried her face in her trembling hands. Giafar's emotion was scarcely less visible than hers.

"Why dost thou tremble thus, Giafar?" said the calif. "What passion or what fear is it which thus shakes thy firmness?"

A moment's silence followed ere the prince was able to reply. "Should I listen unmoved, my lord, when the story of my dishonour is told in my very hearing?"

"Thou feelest deeply the wound which this slave has inflicted upon thine honour?"

"Most deeply, may it please the calif."

"Thou holdest it, then, as no light crime, which the lapse of time may bury in forgetfulness, but one which stings most sharply, and can be healed by naught but punishment and revenge!"

"Even revenge, my most gracious master, cannot do this. My hurt lies deep beyond its reach."

"In truth, her crime is black and treacherous, and thou canst not fail to think thus of it."

The prince bowed his head, but made no reply.

"Thou dost not answer me," exclaimed the calif. "I would know from thine own lips thy thoughts as to her guilt."

"I esteem it, my lord," replied the prince, speaking slowly, and strongly exerting himself to appear calm—"I esteem it base!"

"Well, proceed," said the calif, glancing his eye alternately from the slave to her master.

"Most vile, and most ungrateful!"

"And deserves— Speak on—dost thou not hear me, that thou glarest with such wonder upon my face? Her punishment—what should it be?"

"She has already paid the forfeit of her crime, my lord."

"Must I again bid thee answer, slave? Thou hast heard my question. What sentence is meet for the wretch who is thus guilty?"

"Doubtless, death, my lord!" uttered the prince, faintly.

Under the searching vigilance of the calif's eye, Giafar had not ventured to cast a glance upon Khatoun. Had he done this, he would have seen that which must have silenced the avowal which the suspicious anger of the calif was extorting from his lips. With feelings of indescribable horror, she had listened to the expressions of reproach and contumely which her master had lavished upon her conduct. But when she heard that dreadful sentence of condemnation coming from the lips of one that she loved, one who knew how little it was deserved, her agony was terrible and overwhelming. Her features, which before were of an intense paleness, now became tremulous and quivering; her eyes glared upon him as though they would burst from the sockets, her lips, white as her cheeks, were half unclosed, through which her breath was drawn with laborious yet hurried effort, heaving and depressing her bosom, as with the throes of death's last convulsion.

The calif turned to her, and exclaimed, unheeding her anguish, "Thou hast heard the doom which thy master has passed upon thee. What sayst thou? dost thou deserve it?"

She was able to utter, but with extreme difficulty, and gasping feebly for breath—"I shall not complain, my lord."

"For thou art guilty?"

"For I am guilty!"

"And by the beard of my father's father, thou shalt suffer for this folly! Giafar, thou hast spoken a just and true sentence. It shall not fail of execution. See thyself to it. Ere morning, tell me, and with truth, that yon culprit has ceased to live!"

"It shall not need, my lord," exclaimed the hakim, pointing, as he spoke, to Khatoun. Her face was overshadowed as with the gloom of death, her eyes closed; her features, agitated for an instant by an expression of extreme agony, became fixed and motionless, and she fell forward lifeless upon the floor.

"Be thyself, my lord—all is over! Remember thy wife," whispered Gabriel to the prince, as he started forward to raise the fallen Khatoun. But these words had no power to restrain him. He was unmindful of the presence of his watchful master, he saw no object, he thought of nothing but the stricken and prostrate slave who had sacrificed her life and fair fame for his safety. He rushed forward, exclaiming, "I have slain her!—my preserver! my deliverer!" and stooping, he lifted her face from the earth, and supported her in his arms. Gabriel followed him, his gravity somewhat disturbed by an occurrence so unexpected, saying quickly, "Give place, my lord. Thou art little skilled in such matters."

"It shall not be. I deserted her while living—in death, at least, I will support her."

"Thou art mad!" whispered the hakim, as he stooped to relieve the prince from his senseless burden. "I have a life, my lord, which I have perilled freely for thee. If thou carest not for thine own safety, at least, bethink thyself of mine."

Fortunately for the hakim, the calif had not noticed his agitation, or his secret whispering to the prince, his attention was at the moment directed to the falling slave. But when he saw the prince rush forward, when he listened to the words which came so unguardedly from his lips, his countenance darkened, and he exclaimed, angrily, "Giafar, what meanest thou? resign the slave to the care of the hakim. Waste not thy grief upon the dead. The living may yet need all thy sympathy."

These words aroused the prince, who had been already in part recalled to himself by the words of Gabriel, and placing the drooping form of Khatoun in the arms of the physician, he arose, standing mute before the angry frown of his master. "How is this, Giafar?" said the calif, eying him sternly. "What means thine emotion?—and thy words? Explain them quickly, as thou valuest thy life. Thou needst not kneel. Stand erect, and speak to me, while mine eyes are upon thy face."

"I will not deny, my lord," replied the prince, with unblenching firmness, "that I deeply regret the fate of this unhappy slave. She was once the favourite of my harem. She was once innocent and pure; then, no one was more faithful or more kind than she. Influenced by some strange jealousy, she has erred, it is true, from her duty; yet I remember what she once was. I remember, too, the punishment which she has endured, the severe imprisonment which has wasted her as thou seest, and inflicted upon her bosom suffering worse than death. I think of these, my lord, and wish this blow had been spared her."

"But thou grievest for a traitress, Giafar! Why call her thy preserver? what has she done to merit such a name?"

"And is she not, my lord?" exclaimed the prince, with unaffected warmth—"has she not saved me from thine anger? When I first obtained evidence of her guilt, in the violence of passion, I had wellnigh punished her with death; but the prayers of the princess prevailed with me, and I consigned her to imprisonment. I little thought that the time would so soon come, when I should owe my own safety to the presence and confession of that slave. I trembled when I entered her solitude to-day, to advise her of this interview. She was borne down by sorrow; and I feared, lest from a feeling of hatred and revenge, she might deny her falsehood, and place in peril the life of him who had been the author of her imprisonment. But thou hast seen, my lord, how different has been her temper. Thou hast seen with what fidelity she has given, as it were, her life for mine. Her constancy in this has redeemed her errors, and I cannot but grieve for her sad death."

The calif answered not. He continued for some moments looking upon the prince, steadily, but with a vacant gaze, as though musing upon the sincerity of his reply. Gabriel, in the mean time, had been engaged in attending upon the lifeless Khatoun. Anxiety for his own safety at first interfered with this duty, and he could not avoid lending his ear to the words of the prince as he accounted for his emotion to the suspicious calif. As he listened to his exculpation, his self-possession returned, and he busied himself, with his accustomed thoughtfulness and alacrity, to ascertain the state of the senseless form which he supported. He examined attentively her pulse, but it replied not to his careful touch. He placed upon her half-closed lips a glossy curl, which had escaped from beneath her head dress, but no breath stirred the light ringlet. He listened for the beatings of her heart, but all seemed still. The old man ominously shook his head.

"Is the slave still alive?" inquired the calif, speaking for the first time since Giafar's reply to him.

"I fear not, my lord," answered the hakim. "Life seems to have departed. It were well if she were taken from hence."

"Let it be so," said the calif.

"Whither shall she be removed, my lord?" inquired the prince.

"It matters not. To thine own palace, if thou wilt. Let Gabriel see to her."

"It shall be done, my lord."

"And listen, hakim," said the calif, recalling him—"if thou canst recover her with thine art, a purse of gold shall be thine. Look to it. Fidelity is a rare virtue in these our days."

They placed the lifeless form of the young girl in a litter, and she was borne to the prince's palace. Gabriel followed hastily, to lend his skill and care in restoring her, while Giafar pursued slowly his sad and solitary way towards his abode.

————

CHAPTER XI.

We watch'd her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As o'er her heart the waves of life Came heaving to and fro.

* * * * * *

Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied; We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.

Song.

Borne down by grief and self-reproach, Giafar returned to his home. Life seemed a burden too heavy to endure, when laden with such horrors as had crowded thickly within the compass of a day. Art and precaution had preserved his own life, it is true, but had destroyed a lovely and innocent being; one whose devotion had interposed between himself and his master's displeasure, and had saved him from imminent peril. His own safety was of light moment to him. The sting that pressed most deeply into his soul, was the thought of that ruin which he seemed destined to pluck down upon the heads of all who interested themselves in his safety. One true heart had broken, rent asunder by his own harsh and selfish counsel, and others might follow; how soon, Allah alone could tell.

Upon arriving at his own abode, he found Khatoun still lying as one dead, and the princess, who was aware of her innocence and fidelity, watching anxiously near her. He bent over her fragile and emaciated form, and gazed with anguish upon her senseless features. He had often seen them beaming with hope and joy, when a smile, a word from him, would inspire her with double life. But now those features were motionless. Now, epithets the most endearing could not move her, could not crimson her cheek, or alarm, with the soft terrors of love, her once timid and palpitating bosom. What loveliness had that deep insensibility bound up in its stern embrace. But love could not awake it, no! nor remorse nor hope.

She lay pale and motionless. No breathing that was perceptible moved her bosom, or passed from her bloodless lips. Her small, white, and almost transparent hands, were cold—they responded not to the soft pressure with which they were clasped by that sad pair who were so mournfully tending her. Her features still preserved that rigidity of expression which had fallen upon them when she sank, in the calif's presence, under the ruthless sentence which he had passed upon her. Her eyes were closed, and an expression of ghastliness had settled about her mouth that was painful to behold. She looked not as the clay should look when the soul has departed in gladness, when the sweetness of the tenant spirit still lingers about its deserted mansion, telling us that its last interchange with the body, its moment of farewell, was one of pleasure, or at least of peace. Her face wore not that mild and quiet calmness which is so looked for by the eyes of grieving friends, and which so cheers the desolation of their hearts. Giafar marked this, and the thought fearfully augmented his anguish.

They watched her long. All the care of the hakim had been bestowed upon her, until he had relinquished his efforts in despair. Yet still they hung over her, stationed mute and motionless on either side of her low couch, waiting for some sign of slow-returning life. Midnight had come and gone, and their hopes were dwindling to a feeble spark within their bosoms, when the silence of the chamber was broken by a soft, yet deep and long-drawn sigh. Again all was silent. They waited in breathless expectation, gazing in hope upon her. In a few moments the same low sound was again heard. It seemed like the sad murmur of some hovering spirit echoed through the apartment. Giafar took the silver lamp, that burned dimly, and cast its flickering light upon her features. No life was seen there—no motion. Still they bend over her; a feeble heaving of the bosom is soon seen—their eyes are fastened on her—and again a sigh comes faintly from her lips. Giafar tightened the slight pressure in which he detained her hand, and the princess placed to her lips a handkerchief moistened in some aromatic liquid. Aroused by this, her eyes unclosed feebly for a moment, but, without a sign of recognition, they again quickly closed.

Now followed a deep sleep. During this while, Giafar and Abassa spoke not save by signs. They looked with smiling encouragement on each other, as though they had no wish beyond the recovery of the stricken Khatoun, as though they had no griefs of their own, no dangers, and no fears. Notwithstanding, however, these signs of returning life, the hands of the young slave regained not their warmth, and her delicate feet, which the care of the princess had wrapped in the softest furs, were still cold as marble.

A long hour passed by, when, sighing as before, her drooping lids were heavily lifted, and she awoke slowly from her slumber. Her attention was first directed towards the hand which the princess held, by the warm pressure with which Abassa clasped it. Seeing it enclosed within another, she raised her eyes faintly, as though looking for the owner of that kind hand which so carefully embraced her own, until they rested upon the beautiful yet dimmed features that were bending so compassionately over her. She gazed in wonder, until, being sensible of the presence of some one on the opposite side of the couch, she turned her head upon the pillow, when her eyes encountered the prince. She started, as memory returned, bringing in its train the scenes in which she had enacted her sad and fearful part; then, with a smile of peculiar sweetness that lighted up her face almost to brilliancy, she bent an earnest glance upon the princess. She attempted to press her hand to her lips, but had not strength sufficient, and would have spoken, but the words were murmured inaudibly.

"Rest thee, Khatoun," said the prince.

"Rest thee, my sweet girl," said Abassa, in kind tones. "Speak not, but sleep."

She again closed her eyes for a few moments, and then said, in a low voice,

"This is most kind—to die thus."

"Do not say this, Khatoun," said the princess. "We have been weeping over thee as over one entombed, but thou art returned to life and happiness."

The young girl shook her head faintly, and replied,

"I have no wish for life. To one who has felt the woes that have of late disturbed my peace, death, and to die thus, were blessedness."

"But sleep, Khatoun," said Giafar. "Thou art weak; to speak, even, may sever that thread of life which we thought had parted. Sleep, sleep, and talk when thou awakest."

"The time is short, Giafar," she replied. "I shall sleep sweetly soon, and full long. Remember the words"—she paused a moment for lack of strength—"the words you spoke to me. They are fast fulfilling. And were it not better—better to die thus"—she here looked alternately at those two who were weeping over her—"with these tears dropping upon my unworthy brow—than by the sword, the axe, or some hideous instrument of death? The stern sentence of the calif—heard you it not?—how fearfully it sounded!—I shall escape it."

Gasping for breath, she would have continued, but Giafar interrupted her.

"Fear not that fate, Khatoun. The calif has relented from his purpose, and will be well pleased to hear that thou art restored to life. Be calm—preserve thy hope—all shall go well. Thy fame shall be restored. These lips shall disavow that story of thy dishonour."

"Listen to me, my lord," exclaimed the young girl, with more strength than she had hitherto evinced. "I know the grief you feel to see me thus—'tis written in lines of agony upon your face. But think you it was yon fearful scene that has brought me thus early to my grave? Oh no! Death has long been busy in this bosom. I well remember when the blow was struck—but 'tis no matter now. I am destined soon to depart. Think not to detain me from the tomb by placing thine own life in peril. Shall I die more sweetly to think that thou hast done this? No! let me breathe my last, fondly hoping that I have saved thee from destruction."

"Thou hast indeed done this. But imbitter not the life which thou hast preserved by sacrificing thine own. Be composed—ere an hour is past, I will bring thee a full pardon from the calif."

" 'Twill be in vain. Need I repeat it, my lord? Speak to him, lovely princess; thy words"—she hesitated a moment—"thy words can move him. Tell him, with thine own sweet voice, it will be in vain. Tell him I am dying. Is it not so? That hand, is it not cold? This voice, is it not growing fainter? Tell him this—tell him to live for—thee."

"I cannot," exclaimed Abassa, pouring a flood of tears upon the face of the dying girl. "I cannot dream of happiness unless thou mayst live to share it."

"Think not of me," was the reply; "I am eager to depart. I shall find a home in paradise. I am wearied with grief—there I shall be at peace. I am weak—there I shall find strength. My life has been a sad sojourn; fear has been my constant companion on the way, but I shall be 'secure at my journey's end.' I have erred often, but I am penitent. Thank Heaven, I yet live to ask pardon for that falsehood. It was upon my lips even as I fell—and what a falsehood! I had no time for prayer—no word—not one, for mercy. But I am yet here," she continued, after a slight pause, her voice scarcely sounding above a whisper, and her eyes turned steadfastly to heaven—"and will not Allah forgive his servant? I remember what I have professed during my life—that God is God alone, that he has no partner in his glory, and that Mohammed is his prophet."

Her strength had by this time become nearly exhausted, partly from the exertion which she had made in speaking, but more from the fast approach of death. She was unable to converse, except in broken and almost inaudible sentences, and sensible that her efforts for this purpose were in vain, she remained silent, save for the low muttering of her devotions, awaiting the coming of that messenger whose summons she so longed to hear—of death, of the deliverer, him who should rescue her for ever from her woes. Giafar and Abassa stand beside her couch, each holding a hand which they feel growing every moment less sensible to their clasp, and more rigid and unyielding in the stern embrace of death.

"I have brought this fate upon thee, my faithful and hapless one," exclaimed the prince in deep anguish. "Speak once again, and tell me that I am forgiven." The grief of a woman could not be more apparent and more uncontrollable than that which overcame the firmness of Giafar. It was displayed in a deep groan that burst suddenly from his bosom, and in the tears that were wetting his hands with which he strove to conceal such weakness. The emotion of the princess was in like manner extreme. Khatoun strove in vain to reply, but to Giafar's reiterated entreaty for forgiveness, she answered with a sweet smile, one which could not be mistaken. He felt that he was fully and freely pardoned. The dying girl endeavoured to draw his hand to her lips, but finding herself too weak, she loosed the one which was detained in the gentle clasp of Abassa, and tried with the united strength of both to effect her purpose. Ere she did this she cast an entreating glance upon the princess, as though asking for permission and pardon for that last caress. Abassa's face was in an instant drooping over her, the tears falling in a shower from her eyes, and she exclaimed, "Ask me not. Thou hast saved his life and mine own, and thou deservest him more than I." A smile fleeting as the hues of the fleeting rainbow shone upon her features, and she feebly pressed their united hands with a kiss, for Abassa had assisted in her weak attempt to raise that of the prince to her lips; but she soon removed them, for they interrupted that breathing which was becoming every moment more laborious and impeded, and again her eyes faintly closed.

They watched that dying slave—that lone girl—and wept as for a sister o'er her sad and early fate. But they cannot keep her back—they cannot detain her from the bright path which is opening before her. She does not mind them now. Her soul trembles upon her quickly moving lips, and is just departing. She heeds not the pressure of those dear hands—she feels not the tears that are dropping warm upon her icy brow—she cannot hear the words of grief and bitter sorrow that are murmured near her. She hears no voice but one—the voice of that stern spirit, as he calls upon her soul—and quickly it obeys. Though leaving a bosom that heaves with hurrying throes, though parting from lips panting and gasping for the faintest breath, yet in a moment it is away, and all is marble, or as motionless. One convulsive shudder as the tyrant enters his domain, and the sad, the lone, the beautiful, is for ever still.

When death had set his signet upon her features, with that stern fixedness and pallor, of which there is no counterfeit, after gazing for a moment upon the sweet smile that still lingered about her lips, they left the couch, and retired still to weep. Far from her home, that gentle being had come to find love, a changing lover, and a grave. Even for him who had deserted her she had died; repaying neglect with truth, forgetfulness with unalterable fidelity. She was too gentle to bear the blighting frost which had destroyed the young blossom of her hopes. She had borne sorrow until its very malice had befriended her; and her spirit, wearied with griefs, has passed where they cannot follow.

Gathered in early spring, this sweet wild flower from the sunny vale of Khorasan, had bloomed for a short summer amid the gay gardens of Bagdad; but rude winds laid it soon low, and it now fades beneath the green cypress upon the banks of the Tigris.

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CHAPTER XII.

Verily we sent down the Koran in the night Al Kadr. And what shall make thee understand how excellent is that night? The night Al Kadr is better than a thousand months. Therein do the angels descend, and the spirit Gabriel, by the permission of their Lord, with his decrees concerning every matter. It is peace until the rising of the morn.—Koran.

There is a holy night in the Moslem's year. The "night of excellence" it is called. Upon this night "many wonders, secret and invisible, are performed. All inanimate things adore God; the waters of the sea lose their saltness, and become fresh and sweet, in these mysterious moments." This is the hour for devotion. This is the hour for praise. Upon this night are the Divine decrees for the ensuing year brought down from the highest heavens, and given to the charge of angels to execute. This is the hour for prayer; ere the scroll is written, ere the decree has gone forth. Let the sinner, though his crimes were numberless, then turn in supplication to the Most High, and it were worth heaven to him. Prayer upon this night is better than the prayers of a thousand months. Yet it hath not pleased the all-wise Allah to reveal the time of this night to mortals; no saint nor prophet hath declared it. Watch, therefore, and pray continually, lest it escape. "Since you know not," says the Koran, "the time of this night, so act that each night may hold you the place of this."

When all the world is sleeping and at rest, Abassa watches, weeps, and prays. Many a lone hour she passes in supplication to Heaven, that her sorrows may be removed away. In the silence of the night many a tear falls from her eyes to earth, and many a sigh is wafted as grateful incense to that land from whence only she can look for relief. No one on earth can aid her now. Whither, then, should the trembler turn? To Heaven. Alas! that we so long delay our approach to that sure fortress; that we should wait till sorrows or dangers gather around us, and drive us to its shelter; and then how are our hopes deadened, our confidence destroyed, by the thought that it is our need, and not our will, that urges us. Though her own griefs press sorely upon her spirits, yet she forgets not the departed Khatoun. She often mingles with her devotions a prayer for her peace, and weeps too, as she remembers her constancy and truth.

Is prayer of none effect? Is Heaven pitiless? or has mercy, that sits above, bending for ever from the clouds, retired deep into yon blue abyss, wearied with her gentle office? Spring comes; yet with it comes not peace. The crisis of her fate draws nigh. Months of misery have saddened and thinned her face; feeble and trembling, she looks not for relief, but in calm despair awaits that hour which should bring the mother joy and a new love, but from which she expects naught but grief and danger. She has not failed to leave Bagdad, to court the pure air that wanders unconfined through those pleasant gardens upon the Tigris; she visits often the good old Ibrahim, and in his bosom reposes her sorrows. Yet all these avail not. Paler and paler becomes her cheek, deeper and deeper her gloom; her danger nearer, her hope more distant.

Giafar is with her, sad and comfortless. His courage and endurance had been tried to the uttermost, and had yielded at one time to the severe pressure of danger and horror that had descended upon him, as the staunch bark bends to the sweeping winds, and stoops into the deep, labouring and o'erpressed by the thick-coming waters. Yet, as that bark emerges from the waves, and dashes again undaunted through the deep, so rose from their prostration the fortitude and firmness of the prince, impaired in nowise by the trials which had, for a time, endangered them. In addition to this, however, he had passed through the furnace of affliction, and sorrow had done that which terror had not been able to accomplish. It had permanently depressed his spirit; it had clouded his face with gloom, and rendered him, for a long time, deaf to all consolation, even though whispered by the dear voice of his wife, and insensible to all pleasure, though shared and sweetened by her presence. The fate of the gentle and hapless Khatoun had laved his soul with the waters of grief, and had torn away its best defences, and now, remorse and self-reproach were rolling in upon his untrenched bosom.

The death of that soft being who had so loved him, and so suffered for him, filled his soul with regret. He remembered the love which he had so lightly given her, but which she had treasured up like gold refined, and though custom authorized, and religion sanctioned all his actions, yet the evil was too plain; it had, as it were, become palpable by her sufferings. He remembered the sacrifice which she had made for him; he called to mind her last hours, when even Heaven was almost forgotten, and her thoughts seemed bound up in him, and in his safety. Memory was a fiend to torture him. He had endured worse than death, and, save for his duty to others, would long ere this have given up his life into his master's hands.

He prostrates himself in prayer often for the happiness and safety of his sorrowing wife, and often for the peace of the departed Khatoun. He scatters alms with prodigal hand, and begs the prayers of sheik and imam. They bless his piety, and pray for the sweet dead. He reared no marble over her tomb. He paid no outward testimonies of sorrow; but he has written out, as he had promised, a fair epitaph; the story of her innocence and truth, that in after times the world may know of her fidelity, and weep over her unhappy fate.

Summer comes. The hour is past. From the strict seclusion of her chamber, the princess comes forth changed. Her eye again smiles, again she seems almost happy. Can it be? Have her prayers been heard? Is Heaven propitious? Has she found the night Al Kadr? Of great power is prayer. The angels stoop to listen, and with permission of their master, bring down the wished-for blessing. Of great power is prayer. It opens the gates of paradise. It brings peace from its high mansion to dwell in the hearts of the unfortunate. It strengthens, it sooths, it blesses. Mourner, be glad—murmurer, be still! There is a heaven replete with joys and blessings; there is a hand which from that high storehouse scatters them abundantly upon this earth. If they descend not at once upon your heads, be patient, be resigned. Even in the darkest hour, when hope seems farthest distant, light and relief may be most nigh.

During this time the calif had clothed himself in kindness. The bold demeanour and readiness of Giafar had shaken his master's belief of his disobedience; and the report of the hakim, and the testimony of Khatoun, sufficed to remove all jealousy from his mind. If any cloud of distrust darkened upon him, it was when he thought of the agitation which the prince exhibited during the confession of that unfortunate girl, and the anxiety which he manifested for her fate. But with the moment vanished the anger and suspicion, and his mind, welcomed with delight the return of past, yet not forgotten pleasures. The importunity of the physician Gabriel for the health of the princess his daughter had prevailed with the Commander of the Faithful, and he had given Giafar permission to retire with his wife from the crowded city to the seclusion of his summer gardens. He often heard tidings of her welfare; that she was still weighed down by sickness and gloom; yet when the summer came he visited her retirement, and found her freed in great part from that depression which had so long overshadowed her peace. She still wore the marks of sorrow upon her countenance, but they were fast vanishing. Her cheek was regaining its colour, her eye its brightness, and her sweet face its smiles. Well pleased was Haroun to behold this change. If a lingering fear yet hovered over him, it did not influence his demeanour, nor his feelings towards his children. The malice of fortune seemed, at last, exhausted, and, through very inconstancy, she again was kind.

At length the calif, for the seventh time, turned his face towards the holy city. His motive for the pilgrimage was not religion alone, though its duties were always pleasing to the monarch. It was his purpose to leave the succession to his three sons conjointly, and to this effect he had written his testament. He was desirous that the disposition which he had made of his kingdom should be known during his lifetime; and to render it doubly sacred in the eyes of his subjects, he wished it published to the world under peculiar religious ceremonies. It was his intention to affix, with great solemnity, his testament to the wall of the sacred temple at Mecca, that pilgrims from all parts of Islam might there peruse it, and learn to hold it in reverence, as the will of the high priest of their faith; and that under circumstances well adapted to inspire them with veneration for their religion, and for him who stood in the place of its Blessed Author. His wish to do this was not the less, when he thought that the relation in which the prince stood to his family might one day give to the world a pretender to his crown, either in the person of Giafar himself, or of his offspring. He himself might soon be laid in the dust; and even if the prince had hitherto been obedient to his commands, yet when his own strong hand wielded not the sceptre, the temptation of a crown, superadded to that of love, might prove too powerful for his allegiance.

Sumptuous and splendid beyond the memory of former times, was this pilgrimage of Haroun al Raschid to the holy city.[16] Troops of attendants, richly dressed, armed slaves on foot, mounted guards, composed an endless cavalcade; and a numerous band of grave imams, and doctors of the law, dignified the procession with their presence. Soft carpets were spread out over the waste of sand, upon which walked the calif and his sons, surrounded by the principal officers of his household. Tempting fruits, refreshing drinks, and delicacies of every description, awaited the pilgrims at various stations on the road; and the rude Arab wondered to see the gorgeousness and splendour of cities strewn across the desert. Snow from the mountains cooled their sherbets and viands; and camels laden with it abundantly, bore that hitherto unknown luxury to the astonished inhabitants of Mecca. Pride and self-complacency mingled with piety in the monarch's bosom, as he thought upon his power, his pomp, and sacred duty, and journeying in all ease and safety, he slowly approached the holy city.

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CHAPTER XIII.

Clasp me a little longer on the brink Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress; And when this heart has ceased to beat, oh! think, And let it mitigate thy woe's excess, That thou hast been to me all tenderness, And friend to more than human friendship just. Oh! by that retrospect of happiness, And by the hopes of an immortal trust, God shall assuage thy pangs when I am laid in dust.

Gertrude of Wyoming.

Our readers must once more glance at the summer gardens of Prince Giafar. With the season had returned their loveliness. The river rolled by with its wonted celerity. The rose and henna were still denizens of that dear spot. Nature's melody was again heard, cheering those whose bosoms were untenanted by sorrow, but falling like bitter mockery upon the hearts of the careworn. There was the delightful kiosk—the zephyrs were breathing their sighs through the faintly resisting latticework, causing it to tremble as they entered. Within, enjoying their freshness and their music, was seated, as in times past, the Princess Abassa.

The flight of two years, and the anxieties which had crowded themselves into that eventful period, had somewhat changed her—had thrown, as it were, a veil over the radiance of her charms, but had left them more soft and touching. A light shade of crimson tinged her cheek, her forehead was pale, but still intellectual and noble in its outline, and her eye had a melancholy sadness in its expression, and was somewhat sunken within its orbit. Her dark hair had lost nothing of its luxuriance, but still fell in profusion down her neck, covering her shoulders. Care, not crime, had stamped its lineaments upon her lovely face, and his less ruthless hand, though it had dimmed the brilliancy of her beauty, had not dared to profane its sweetness.

Giafar was reclining near her feet. To look upon his calm, unruffled brow, one would not deem him a partaker in those griefs which had left their impress upon her features. If anything was visible in his countenance beyond firmness and reflection, it was a shade of anxious, sad tenderness, with which he gazed upon his wife. His own sorrows seemed not to have affected or altered him—yet they were the same with hers; the same were their fears, too, and the same their danger. Parents—they wept an infant separated from them since the first moment of its being. Lovers—they feared lest the discovery of its existence might lead to their mutual destruction. The ruin which they had so narrowly escaped had been averted by the firmness and fidelity of the hakim Gabriel. By his counsel, the princess, ere the winter had passed, had left the city, to seek, in the retirement of her husband's villa, the health which she had lost.

Great prudence, seconded by extreme good fortune, accomplished all their wishes, and the heavens seemed once again to smile upon them. Yet still they were free neither from anxiety nor danger. Their infant child had been sent to Mecca under the care of a faithful slave, there to be secretly reared. It was by no means improbable, therefore, that the calif, during his sojourn there, might be informed of its existence. Yet this state of suspense was one of comparative enjoyment. Despair had been hitherto their dwelling-place, and to pass even a step beyond its borders was something. Yet this could not long endure. The return of the calif was near at hand, and their uncertainty must soon terminate in security and happiness, or in the fulfilment of their most dreadful anticipations.

"How slowly creep the hours!" said the princess. "Will he not soon return?"

"Weeks must yet elapse ere we shall see him," replied the prince. "The duties of religion still detain him near the holy shrine. Allah grant that they may sink into his heart and soften it! May he return kind and forgiving!"

"You look upon his coming with great dread, Giafar," said the princess, "since you utter so earnestly that prayer."

"I will not deny it. Dark forebodings have been haunting my mind of late, which I am unable, even in thy presence, to shake off. It may be that I am so used to tremble that I start at a shadow.

He whose vessel is returning richly laden, fears the smallest cloud lest it should bring a tempest We have so much to lose that I cannot but dread even the most remote chance of danger."

"Have we not," replied the princess, "escaped those which have threatened us tenfold more than this present? why, then, should we distrust the goodness of Allah which has hitherto preserved us? For myself, I await with impatience the return of my father. We shall then hear of our dear, our absent child, or we shall at least know if its existence is still a secret. Its fate is bound up in ours. Alas!" exclaimed the disconsolate mother, "what rude hands may be now tending it—but no danger can come near it—can there?—my father even in his anger would not harm it—would he, Giafar?"

The prince hesitated to answer the torturing question. "Fear it not," he replied—"tyrants alone trample upon the unoffending, and Al Raschid, methinks, would spare the helpless and innocent."

"What grief, what ill fortune to lose it thus!" said the princess; "to be deprived of the dear pleasure of supplying its wants, hushing its cries, and watching its smiles. It seems as if Heaven sent us its blessings only that we should know their value and then lose them. My child is taken from me—if I should be deprived of thee—"

"Grieve not, light of mine eyes!" interrupted the prince; "Allah will watch over its welfare—all its wants will be well supplied by the faithful hands in which we have deposited it; and I well hope that the day is not far distant, when it will be restored to thine arms in safety. But weep not—tears are sad omens!" He was interrupted by a slight tap at the door of the apartment, and a slave entered and placed in his hands a letter. The prince glanced at the seal and turned pale. "How! the Commander of the Faithful returned!" he exclaimed—"who brought this missive?"

"A horseman, my lord."

"Has he gone?" inquired the prince.

"He departed without drawing his foot from the stirrup," replied the slave.

"Said he nothing?"

"Nothing, my lord."

Giafar waved his hand, and the slave retired. Abassa, who had watched his countenance, and saw that he trembled as he opened the sealed epistle, listened with terrible agitation as he read the following lines:—

"Haroun al Raschid, to his trusty servant Giafar, greeting:

"I am now at Anbar. Before I enter Bagdad I would advise with thee respecting an affair of weight. Mount thy horse, and spare not the spur until thou art here. Farewell!"

"Allah be praised! my fears were awake too soon," exclaimed the princess, her face brightening as she listened. " 'Tis well—is it not?—speak, Giafar!—why dost thou not answer me?—why dost thou look so anxiously? These are not words of anger—kindness and love breathe throughout these lines—smile!—why dost thou not smile? Is it so?" she exclaimed, in a piercing tone, catching terror from his looks. "Are we lost?"

"Life of my soul!" said Giafar, clasping her to his bosom, "be not thus shaken—the buffetings and storms of fortune have loosened the firm fabric of thy mind, or thou wouldst not from these lines gather such fears."

" 'Twas from thee, 'twas in thy face that I read them," she replied, encouraged by his words.

"I was moved more, then, than I thought. I myself have lost that constancy, that steadiness of soul, of which I was once too proud."

"Wonder not, then," replied Abassa, "that I, a woman, should sometimes quail, even at imaginary danger. Oh, Giafar! I live in thee—on thee I depend for fortitude, for firmness. See!—I am calm again—thy words have reassured me."

"Mistake me not, Abassa. I would not have thy bosom give entrance to ill-founded hopes or needless fears; the one would uselessly torture, the other bitterly deceive thee. These lines are fair and flattering. I cannot read destruction in them; but experience has ill served me, if I should take them as they seem. 'Tis true, it matters not. My duty leads me to my master, though it were to leave my head at his feet. Yet, I would fain know if I am to return to thee again, or if I must part from thee now for ever. Let me read this scroll once more. There is a strange coldness in these lines; I cannot recognise my master in them: yet there is no anger here. But why await me at Anbar? All is inexplicable! And then—his sudden return. How strange! By Allah! he must have crossed the desert with the speed of lightning. For what?—why such haste? One cause I can imagine, and but one. There is no open revolt, no secret plotting, no foreign incursion—no, nothing of these can have led to his return. Heaven protect us if my fears are true! Stay!—let me consult my horoscope. It may be that the stars will vouchsafe some token by which I may explain this mystery."

He then took his astrolabe, and placing the ephemerides before him, was about to cast his horoscope, when suddenly—"Hark!" was the exclamation of both. A clear voice came from the river, singing the following verses in Arabic: "He governs himself by the stars, and thinks not that Allah is the ruler of the stars, and that his will must infallibly be accomplished." Every syllable fell distinctly on their ears.

"How ominous are those words!" said Giafar, letting the astrolabe drop from his hands. He threw open the lattice and looked out upon the Tigris. A single boat was floating down the stream, while its pilot was lightening his labour by song. The words which he had chosen were strangely applicable to the condition of the prince, and impressed upon his mind a gloom of which he was unable to divest himself. " 'Tis so," he said, " 'tis so!—the will of Heaven be done!" and then added, in the words of an Eastern proverb, " 'When the hour of destiny is come, the prey runs to the feet of the huntsman.' Farewell, my own life!—farewell! I will take leave of thee as though it were the last. Be firm—be resolute. All is not lost. We may again meet—again we may be happy. But if Allah has so ordered it that thine eyes should no more behold me, thou wilt not regret, dearest, that we have taken this last, this sad farewell."

Tears, loud sobs, and, intermingled with them, half suppressed screams, testified the grief and despair that were rending Abassa's heart, as, infolded in her husband's arms, she received and returned those embraces which had been so dear, and which might never be hers again. "Let me charge thee, mine own life, give not thy soul up to grief, until thou shalt hear that the worst has come upon me; for it may be," continued the prince, while he vainly attempted a smile, "it may be, that my fears deceive and unman me." His lips dwelt for a moment upon her pale forehead, and he proceeded. "Should it be otherwise, however, when thou first hearest that—nay, do not tremble thus!—when thou first hearest of my death—delay not one moment—fly with this ring—it is thy father's fatal gift—fly with it to the good hermit. With him thou wilt be safe, and his counsel will direct thy future life. Farewell!—despair not—forget me not—still live—thou art a mother, and mayst yet regain thy child. Fear not that I shall forget thee! In paradise I will await thy coming; no bright-eyed houri of them all shall tempt me from thee—"

"Stay—stay with me!" exclaimed the princess. "If death comes, let it find us together. Sorrow will soon kill me; and is it not better, Giafar, that I should die with thee, than linger here a short, sad time, and then follow seeking thee, trembling and alone?"

"Did I know," replied the prince, "that the sentence for my death had gone forth, I would await it here; but thou forgettest we have much to hope, if our fears, our grief would let us. I will seek the calif, and at his feet beg yet to live for thee. It may be, even if he has discovered our disobedience, he may in some part relent from his purpose. He may not punish us with death. I will not, then, increase his anger by slighting his commands. No, I will go to him. Farewell, once more! Mahmoud shall go with me, and bring thee instant news of my fate."

"There is yet a fleeter messenger," said the princess—"a winged one. The swiftest steed would creep to my impatient senses."

" 'Tis well thought of," replied Giafar.

The princess left the apartment, and in a moment returned with a carrier pigeon fluttering in her hands. "This will not delay," she said. "It will not wander, Giafar; I have taken it from its young. Go—go, dear bird, and return quickly, a messenger of joy!" She then enclosed the unconscious bird in a small coffer, bedewing it with tears the while, and gave it to the prince.

Kiss answers kiss in long and lingering succession. Embrace begets embrace even until nature's power to grieve is exhausted. They half part, and again are fast locked in each other's arms. Their tears stream again in a mingled current down their closely pressed cheeks, and the loud sobs that rend Abassa's breast seem bursting from the bosom of the prince. Their souls seem interchanged—he leaves his own with her when he departs, and carries hers to death with him. He has torn himself from her for the last time, and casts not a glance behind upon her drooping form, lest it should have power to withhold him from his departure. He rushes hastily from the apartment. He descends—seeks the slave Mahmoud, and places in his hands the coffer containing the fleet messenger of the princess, and then they mount and away.

Fast they fly over the plain. The speed at which they ride serves to divert the attention of the prince from the tumult that is raging within his bosom; and sensible of this, he urges his steed to the exertion of his utmost powers. Mahmoud follows close upon the track of his master. They stop for naught, until the sun proclaims to them that the hour of prayer has arrived. Having found some clear stream where they may perform their ablutions, they alight, and repeat the namaz of noon. The devotion of many years seems concentrated in that short and earnest prayer. This done, they delay yet a moment, until they have refreshed their panting horses in the running stream, and then they mount, and speed upon their road.

In this way they had ridden until an hour past midday, and were within a short distance of Anbar, when Giafar perceived a solitary horseman speeding towards them. As the distance diminished between them, he recognised him. It was Jasser, a man of stern and sanguinary temper; and well chosen, if for the execution of a tyrant's vengeance. The misgivings which passed through the mind of the prince were soon changed into horrid certainty, when, upon his near approach, the officer showed him the signet ring of the calif, and demanded his sword. Giafar hesitated a moment, then loosed his scimitar from his girdle, and resigned it into the hands of the officer. Jasser then abruptly produced an order from the calif for the prince's head. Even in that trying moment, the firmness of the prince did not forsake him. He read the order without emotion; examined the well-known writing of his master, and scanned inquisitively the seal which was stamped upon it. Nothing was wanting—no formality had been omitted. He was well accustomed to the simplicity of Eastern executions, and felt that his fate was sealed. "When was this given?" he inquired.

"This morning."

"Where?"

"At Anbar."

"How seemed the Commander of the Faithful? Overcome with anger, or did he place this in your hands with hesitation, or reluctance?"

"Neither, my lord; but with perfect calmness. His words were these, as I bowed low before him, to receive his commands: 'Jasser, turn thy horse's head towards Bagdad; upon the road, coming hitherward, thou wilt meet with Giafar al Barmeki—bring me his head!' "

"What! no token of regret, no tremour, no faltering?"

"Mine eyes saw none of these, my lord."

"And is it thus that he has pronounced a sentence of death against a well-tried and faithful servant? It suffices. Mahmoud!"

The slave drew near, and Giafar, having taken from his hands the coffer, knelt upon the sand, and traced on a small piece of parchment the simple word "Farewell!" Having taken the affrighted bird from its prison, he fastened the folded parchment under its wing, and then proceeded to bathe its parched feet with vinegar in which roses had been steeped, that it might not be tempted from its homeward flight to settle upon the cool waters which lay beneath. "Stoop not from thy flight," he said; "let no stream lure thee by its freshness, lest its waters obliterate what I have written. Her tears will wash it soon away. Dost mind me?" he continued. "Bear it swiftly, and safely home—there, where is thy heart and mine! Go! 'tis the last earthly intercourse between us."

He has committed the impatient bird to the air, and is watching intently its departure. Quickly it speeds away, and as fast come thronging into his mind thoughts of his helpless wife—how much he should have said to her of consolation, of fortitude, of heaven! Merciful Allah! he has written but a single word, and his messenger is a speck, scarcely visible upon the horizon. "Back! back!" shouted the wretched man, franticly. The sound of his own voice recalled him to himself. He turned—the minister of death was at his side, in readiness for his dread task. In a moment he composed himself; and placing in the hands of his slave a purse of gold, and the jewelled poniard that he wore, he said, "Take these, Mahmoud—thou deservest them. Return with speed, and when thou next seest the princess, thy mistress, tell her"—his utterance was choked for a moment—"tell her that thine eyes have beheld me treading upon the verge of the tomb, and that I trembled not, my voice did not falter, neither did my heart fail me, but when I thought of her. From me tell her to be patient and resigned. If death should visit her, bid her fear not. Say—remember well, Mahmoud!—say—except this brief taper be extinguished, the morning will not dawn. Those words, methinks, will sound sweetly to her ears. Go!"

Giafar then turned to prepare himself for death. He repeated aloud the confession of his faith—"There is no God but God, and Mohammed is the prophet of God." This done, he lays aside his turban, and gathering his robe about him, bends his neck to the stroke of the scimitar. Upon the gloom of death which has settled on his countenance, a light flashes, and instantaneously like lightning a thought of hope darts across his mind. He lifts his head—the scimitar is uplifted, but the blow has not yet fallen. "Stay, Jasser!" he exclaimed, and rises from the earth. "Stay!—there is yet time, and, it may be, yet a gleam of hope for me. Do not wonder that I should cling thus to life—I have much to live for. Did you receive this order for my death after the prayer of the morning?"

"I did, my lord."

"It may be," said the prince, "that the calif was heated with wine, or moved by some sudden and undue anger, and would regret the execution of this sentence against me. Return, and tell him that his commands have been obeyed. If he repent, I shall be still in life; if not, my head is always ready."

"It cannot be, my lord," replied the stern officer. "It were trifling with mine own life, thus to neglect the commands of the calif. His words were plain, and I must not wander from them."

"I cannot fly, Jasser. Escape, did I meditate it, were impossible; for who throughout the calif's wide dominions would shelter or aid an outlaw and a traitor?"

"Thou art well esteemed, Prince Giafar. Thy family is most powerful, and the many discontented spirits which are scattered throughout Persia would readily rally round the standard of rebellion, when raised by one whose rank and name would offer so fair a prospect of success."

"These are vain fancies of thine own creating, Jasser."

"I have spoken as from myself, my lord; but if I err not, the calif harbours against you the same suspicions."

"Can it be?—enter such thoughts into my master's bosom? I have but little hope, then, if I have aroused his fears. But let us return together into the calif's presence; there I will lay my head at his feet; and bear well in mind, Jasser, that if the Commander of the Faithful should repent him of my death, upon thy head will he visit the punishment of thy precipitation. Stay!" added the prince, seeing him hesitate; "there is not wanting a witness of my request." Giafar was about to beckon the slave Mahmoud, who had withdrawn a short distance from them, awaiting anxiously the fate of his master, but Jasser replied, "It shall not need, my lord—thy wish is granted; and now to horse, for Bagdad. The sun is fast descending down the sky."

"To Bagdad?"

"Ay, to the calif."

"How!" said Giafar, "is the Commander of the Faithful in the city?"

"He returned this morning, my lord, by the road beyond the river."

"Well, away then, in the name of Allah! I would not tarry from my fate."

Their voices were now drowned by the rapid motion and trampling of their steeds, and Giafar, riding hard by the side of the rude soldier, retraced his road to Bagdad.

————

CHAPTER XIV.

For now sits expectation in the air.

Henry V.

We must now return to the unhappy princess. Fell heavily upon her poor heart the sound of their departing horses' hoofs, as Giafar, followed by the slave Mahmoud, rode quickly away. She listened with a feeling of wintry desolation as to the departure of her last hope, until her ear could no longer distinguish the sound from the loud and quick throbbings of her heart. Then she sank into a state of stunning despair. He was gone—the shield with whose defence she had breasted often the assaults of fortune, and her foreboding heart told her he would no more return.

After remaining for some moments in a state approaching to stupor, she arose and ascended to the roof of the kiosk, there to await the return of her fleet messenger. As she attained the terrace, she caught a glimpse—the last, she whispered to herself—of her dear lord, speeding across the plain; but the gathering dust and distance increasing, in a moment snatched him from her sight. There she remained, like the lone mariner upon his driving vessel, after the pitiless sea has swept away the last companion of his danger, helpless, and looking, though hopelessly, for relief. She strove to strengthen and support her soul with prayer; she tried to fix her wavering thoughts on heaven; but if her hopes are there above, her heart, her happiness, are yet fluttering upon the earth ere they take wing.

Pallid and trembling, she fixes an intent gaze upon the spreading horizon, watching wildly for the coming bird. Now she is absorbed in her griefs, and her eyes seem to wander, or to gaze without precision and distinctness upon the space before her; then again collecting herself, she directs them with searching scrutiny above, around, wherever she may expect her winged herald, fearful, as she turns her sight towards one point of the horizon, lest it shall have emerged quickly from some other.

She now starts convulsively. Some sudden pang—no!—she sees it coming. She rises panting—she throws back the locks, that are streaming around her face. She leans eagerly forward to catch the flutterer—a moment, and it is in her bosom. She attempts in breathless haste to loose the scroll which she perceives fastened under its wing, but her fingers refuse their office. She drops her hands at her side, for it is in vain—she must first calm her trembling frame. Again she essays the task; and having taken the parchment, she glances upon the writing. "Farewell!" She can see no more—she dashes her hand across her eyes, as though to remove the mist which, as she thinks, obscures her vision, and bends her head again to read, but the pitiless paper tells her nothing but "farewell." There is a gasping for breath, a scream, a struggling with thick-coming horrors, a wild throb of an almost bursting heart, and all is still. Sense and misery together have deserted the unhappy princess.

As one who has gone to rest, and must rise ere the night is over to watch or depart from home, is true to the appointed hour, and needs not to be aroused from sleep, so was it with her. She had swooned alone. No maidens were near with their kind offices to revive her, to dash refreshing water upon her brow, to bear her where the coolest breeze might "visit her pale cheek," or with reviving odours to restore her senses. No—a task yet unperformed, the last request of Giafar, seemed even in insensibility to weigh upon her thoughts, and her soul returns quickly to her lifeless body to send the sweet clay upon its errand.

She revives soon, and pressing the ring to her lips, descends, agitated, speechless, and motions her maidens to attend her and prepare her litter. Her slaves bear her quickly to the hermit's cell. She enters in haste, and ere the old man is aware of her coming, drops senseless in his arms. Water was brought from the fountain without, and poured plentifully over her pale brow, and in a moment she again revived. Her voice sounded in a shrill shriek, as clasping the hands of the hermit within her own, she exclaimed,

"It is over, father! My dear lord—"

"The prince, thy husband, what of him?" said the dervis, hastily.

"Slain!—murdered!" was all her tongue could utter.

"Allah have mercy!" said the old man, bending in anguish to the earth. "Is it so, in truth? Did thine eyes behold it?"

"These eyes, sayst thou? Thinkst thou, father, I could see it and yet live? No! no! this will tell thee—here—'tis written"—and she placed in the hands of the old man the parchment which the bird had brought to her, and related to him hurriedly, yet weeping the while, and in broken sentences, the departure of the prince, his fears, his last charge to her—all, all, ere he could ask—the fleet messenger—its quick return—and then, pointing to the scroll, and with eyes that would pierce into the old man's soul, she exclaimed, "Thou knowest all. Is there—but no—yet tell me, is there hope?"

Striving with his emotion, and repressing the throes of grief that shook his aged bosom, the hermit directed his finger to heaven, and replied,

"Yes, there is hope above—hope for him—hope for—hark!" As the hermit listened, his and agitation returned. The quick gallop of a horse urged to full speed sounded near and nearer. It stopped suddenly without, and in a moment the slave Mahmoud burst breathless into the cell. The habits of servility and respect in which Mahmoud had been rigorously trained, were too strong even for the deep interest of that moment, and ere he spoke he bent in obeisance to the ground before the feet of the princess.

"Speak—speak, Mahmoud—what of thy master?" exclaimed, at the same instant, both Abassa and the hermit.

"I have seen the writing of death—I have heard the last prayer uttered—I have beheld the victim kneel, the sword uplifted—yet the blow has been staid. The prince, my master, is even now upon the road to Bagdad."

A few words sufficed Mahmoud to relate what has been told at length in a preceding chapter. He had hardly concluded his account ere he was interrupted by the dervis—

"The calif—where is he?"

"Approaching the city slowly with his train—at least I heard this upon the road," answered the slave.

"Allah be praised! who watches over the safety of his children. There may yet be time."

"He lives, then!" exclaimed the princess, when her emotion permitted her to speak. "Oh, take me to him! take me to my father, that at his feet I may implore him, in words that no lips save mine can utter, to spare my husband. Quickly, quickly, good father!"

"Be calm, my daughter," said the old man, himself trembling with the deepest emotion, as he led Abassa into an inner apartment of his cell. "All shall be done which may avert his fate. Nay, do not distrust me. I have power of which thou little dreamest. Remain here till my return; repose with confidence upon mine aid. I work by means of which Heaven alone has knowledge." Thus saying, he took the ring from the hand of the wondering and almost unconscious princess, and then turned to the slave, exclaiming, "And now, Mahmoud, help me to thy horse. I must ride as though the avenging spirit were behind me. Speed me, most merciful Allah, upon mine errand!" Uttering this ejaculation, the dervis rushed from her presence.

————

CHAPTER XV.

'Tis morn—and o'er his altered features play The beams—without the hope of yesterday, What shall he be ere night? perchance a thing O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing.

Corsair.

Upon his arrival at the holy city, the Commander of the Faithful, having fulfilled the customary duties of a pilgrim, proceeded forthwith to the performance of that ceremony, which was the principal object of his visit to Mecca.

Great pomp and splendour were displayed in the celebration of this rite, but the description thereof, though it figures largely in the annals of oriental magnificence, is in nowise necessary to our narration. We will omit it, therefore, and be content with noticing the following incident, which bears somewhat upon our story. "When the officer who was appointed for this purpose," says the historian, "was about to affix the testament of the calif to the wall of the sacred building, a gust of wind snatched it from his hand, and wafted it across the temple." This was considered a bad omen for the tranquillity of the young princes' reign, and was indeed fulfilled by the dissension which raged between the royal brothers after the death of their father.

This accident affected the mind of the superstitious calif in no ordinary degree. After the completion of the ceremony, he retired from the assembly, and having commanded that no one should intrude upon his solitude, shut himself up within his tent. The hour for the prayer of sunset passed, yet unmindful of the call of the muezzin, the Commander of the Faithful came not forth to join, as was his custom, the public devotions in the mosque. The evening was well advanced, and his attendants were wondering at this unusual seclusion of their monarch, when a man presented himself before the royal tent, and demanded admission into the calif's presence. His name was Jasser, and he bore the rank of an officer of the calif's guard. Mesrour, the chief of the black eunuchs, who was there stationed, refused his request with but little ceremony; and to the plea that his business was pressing, replied, "The old tale, Jasser, and one too common to pass with me—it must wait, man—it must wait."

"I tell thee, Mesrour, my business will not wait, without, it may be, sad detriment, such as thou wouldst ill like to answer for."

"Were it the life of thy father, Jasser, I care not. I would trouble the calif for no such matter. He is gloomy and sad—disturbed, as I think, by yonder pageant. Away, till morning—not for thee, nor thy whole tribe, would I enter his presence till I am bidden."

"Far be it from a worm like me to think of life or length of days, when the peace and honour of my lord the calif are threatened; and no less a matter is this. The danger be on my head if thou admittest me—if not, be it transferred to thine."

"If thou art jesting, Jasser, thou hast chosen an ill place and time. But if thy words are in serious truth, I must perforce admit thee. But be advised; wait until the calif shall come forth. He will then listen to thee with patience."

"On my head be it, Mesrour," exclaimed the officer, pressing forward to obtain entrance. "I tell thee, admit me quickly. I have that for the calif's ear to which he would hearken were he kneeling at the shrine of the Kaaba—though not with patience, in truth."

"Enter then, since thou wilt not hear counsel," was Mesrour's reply; and stepping aside, he permitted Jasser to pass into the calif's presence.

Long was the interview between the Commander of the Faithful and the officer; and when Haroun came forth, it was in furious mood. The lamps which shone in front of the royal tent shed but an imperfect light upon his countenance, but when he spoke, his voice was tremulous with anger. "See that the slave be imprisoned!" he exclaimed.

"And the child, my lord?" said the officer, laying his hand involuntarily upon his poniard.

"No, no, not as yet," was the answer of the monarch; "let it be kept under strict guard, but see that it is well cared for."

Jasser turned to depart, but the voice of Haroun staid him. "Hear thee, Jasser, I have again bethought me. Thou mayst deal with it as I at first told thee, but not with steel—thou mayst spill no such blood. The cord—and let it pass quickly."

"Ay, my lord," was the reply, and the soldier hastily withdrew.

Haroun then approached the eunuch, and said, "Mesrour, wake me at the earliest dawn, and choose six well-appointed horsemen to attend me. I take the road towards Bagdad."

"To hear, my lord, is to obey," replied the wondering Mesrour, and he turned to depart.

"Stay, Mesrour—hie thee after that man, and tell him I revoke the order which I gave him. Thou knowest not—bid him imprison and not slay. Take my signet with thee."

Early on the following morning the calif, having left the greater part of his train at Mecca, entered upon the desert, followed only by Mesrour, Jasser, and six chosen horsemen. In such haste did he take his departure, that many things necessary for their comfort and convenience upon the road were forgotten. Their store of water and provisions was inadequate to their wants; and although they travelled with speed almost incredible, yet they endured many hardships ere they emerged from the sandy wastes of Arabia. For many days the rare stream and scanty fruits were their only sustenance. Even these at last failed them, and the hardiest of the calif's train with difficulty could support themselves under their privations. Such, however, was the tumult in the monarch's soul, that he seemed insensible to corporeal sufferings. At last they pressed too hard upon him. When he contrasted his present condition with the pomp and pleasure with which he had so lately crossed the same road, he was overheard by Mesrour to exclaim against the fickleness of fortune, and confess the weakness of his power, when in the hands of the Most High.

When he had arrived at Anbar, a small town, distant not many leagues from Bagdad, he halted; and having informed himself of the state of his capital, sent an officer to arrest the Barmecides in secret. On the following morning he despatched a message to Prince Giafar, requiring his presence at Anbar; then gave an order for his execution into the hands of Jasser, upon whose cruel and ferocious temper he could depend; and having directed him to set forward upon the road to meet the prince, after the return of his messenger, he crossed the river, and proceeded to Bagdad.

The pitch of excitement to which the calif had been wrought by the discovery which had been made of the existence of the infant son of the Prince Giafar and his daughter, at Mecca, had supported him under the many privations which he had endured on his journey through the desert, and had rendered him insensible to their severity. When, however, the blow was struck which punished the offending prince, and placed within his reach the family of the culprit—when his mind had fallen from that high tone to which it had been strung by indignation and anxiety; then it was that he felt their full effects upon his weakened and exhausted frame. The sentence had been issued, and its execution intrusted to one, who, from his natural sternness of character, and his known hostility to the prince, would abate, in no degree, its harsh performance. Nothing now could save him who once was as the light of his eyes, and as the lifeblood that warmed his bosom. This thought weighed heavily upon his spirit. He had, by one word, uprooted and torn away those ties which, like tendrils, fresh and green, had twined about his heart, and had grown until they had fastened their roots firmly in his bosom, and become like strong bands, such as the massy oak sends deep into the soil. Yet could that word be unspoken, could the decree return unexecuted into the hands of him who sent it forth, it may be doubted whether anger, pride, and unbending obstinacy, would not have forbidden its recall.

He rode slowly and gloomily towards the city. He spoke no word to his attendants, and even Mesrour, who, since the disgrace of the Barmecides, had chiefly enjoyed his favour, could draw from him no sign of recognition. His countenance was haggard, and resembled that of one worn by some painful disease or wearied with long watching. His frame seemed possessed of strength scarce sufficient to support its weight in the saddle, and when their horses were urged to a rapid pace, or moved over a rough and tortuous path, he seemed to falter in his seat, and once or twice was seen to bend forward, even to his saddle bow.

All Bagdad was in commotion. The Barmecides had been arrested, and it was rumoured that they were to suffer the severest penalties of the calif's anger. Few, indeed, were there, whose hearts were not chilled by this dreadful news. Groups of citizens were collected together in the various streets of the city, wondering, inquiring, and lamenting, as they heard of the meditated, but unmerited vengeance of the calif. " 'Tis the fatal cry of the celestial camel,"[17] was heard passing from mouth to mouth—that ominous sentence, expressive to a Moslem of some general, some public calamity. And such would be the ruin of the Barmecides; noble, generous, and brave, they were the benefactors of the people, the pillars of the throne, and there were none who could fill their place, either in the service of the monarch, or the affections of his subjects.

Making his hurried way through the assembled crowds, was seen an aged Giaour. The marks of aversion which all bestowed upon him were unheeded by the infidel, and he hastily urged his steps towards that portion of the city which the calif was about to enter. Once or twice he turned to those near him, and addressed, as it seemed, some earnest interrogatory, but he received no reply, for each, as he drew near, turned from the outcast in abhorrence, and showered curses upon him as he passed. Unimpeded, though repeatedly threatened, in his progress, the Giaour pressed forward until he reached the more compact crowd, which environed the immediate march of the Commander of the Faithful. "Allah ackbar! God is great!" he exclaimed, with strange inconsistency. "I am not, then, too late!" Having thus said, he assayed to force his way through the dense circle that separated him from the calif's person. At any other time, his efforts, for this purpose, would have been visited with summary and serious punishment, but all were too busied, too deeply interested, in the passing scene, to notice the intrusion.

The return of the calif was not welcomed, as was their custom, by the joyful shouts and loud acclamations of his subjects.

"No man cried, God save him! No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home!"

All were silent, a gloomy, wondering terror sat upon the faces of all.

Yet the emotions which disturbed the bosom of the monarch were of a nature so agitating and absorbing that he noticed nothing of this. He rode along in profound silence, with his eyes fixed before him, upon the neck of his charger; and seemed to be insensible whether he was passing through a populous city, or still wandering upon the desert road.

From this state of stupor he was suddenly aroused by the Giaour, who, rushing from the crowd, threw himself before his horse's feet, and in a loud voice demanded a boon.

"What means this?" said the Commander of the Faithful, turning to Mesrour, who rode nearest him.

"I cannot tell, my lord," was the reply. "Let the slave be driven from thy path."

"Nay, look upon me again, most mighty sovereign," exclaimed the Giaour, holding up to view a costly ring—"dost thou not know me?"

The calif glared upon him for a moment; then, as he recognised his features, he started, and replied, "Ay, I remember well! What wouldst thou with me?"

"A boon—a promised boon!"

"It shall be thine. Mesrour, give him audience on the morrow. Thou hast heard—stand from my way."

"Now—this moment—or it will be all too late!" exclaimed the infidel, grasping his horse's bridle, lest he should trample upon him, and with a strong hand detaining the monarch from his path.

A strange sight was it to his wondering subjects, to see the forbearance of the calif at this audacious deed. They looked every moment to see his scimitar flashing from its sheath, and striking the bold wretch to earth without delay. But Haroun was like one in a dream. He seemed uncertain how to act, and looked around, as though for advice and assistance. In the twinkling of an eye, swords were drawn, and voices were heard from the crowd—"Strike the slave to earth. Cut the infidel in pieces. Away with the accursed dog." But loud above all these arose the voice of the old man, exclaiming,

"Pardon for the Prince Giafar!"

At these words all were hushed. The calif reeled in his seat, as though he had received a stunning blow. Recovering himself in a moment, he looked wildly around upon his train, and with a hollow voice inquired,

"What said he?"

"Pardon for Giafar al Barmeki!" exclaimed the Giaour.

"Well, it shall be so," he replied, in the same strange tone; "let the prince be set at liberty." Then, seeing the amazement and horror which were depicted upon the countenances of his attendants, he exclaimed, "True—they have slain him! Fool! thou hast come too late. He has been murdered!"

At this announcement the suppliant seemed overwhelmed, and a moment had passed ere he was able to say,

"The princess—thy daughter!"

"Well, what of her?"

"Spare her life."

"It is safe for thine entreaty; but never will I see her, or call her daughter again. Why dost thou linger? what more wouldst thou?"

"Pardon and safety for the Barmecides—the innocent!"

"Not one of them," was the stern reply. "Their very name shall perish. For his sake they should all have lived; but I will not endure their sight, no, nor the mention of the name, since he is dead. Mesrour, to thee I give the execution of the sentence, and with thy head shalt thou answer for its fulfilment. Let the chiefs of the family be imprisoned, and, for the rest, let all that bear the name be driven into exile; let their goods be confiscated, their dwellings razed to the ground, and threaten with death those who shall dare hereafter to breathe the name of their race." At the hearing of this command, so stern and so unjust, a murmur ran through the crowd which served to increase the ire of the calif. Indeed, he seemed to be lashing himself into fury, as though the workings of indignation might drown in his bosom emotions that were far more torturing.

The boldness of the fire worshipper seemed foolhardiness to those that heard him, when he thus addressed the calif,

"Unjust and cruel prince! how wilt thou answer to the all-wise Allah, for the abuse of that power with which he has intrusted thee? Thou wilt one day tremble before his throne when thou art questioned of thine office!"

It was evidently a sore trial of the calif's patience to listen to so severe a reproof from a despised infidel. He did so, however, his fingers during the while grasping and straining his sword hilt, until the Giaour had concluded. Then his blade was in an instant unsheathed, and spitting upon the ground in token of abhorrence, he exclaimed, as the weapon flashed aloft,

"Dog! dost thou profane with thine unhallowed lips the name of the Most High?"

But ere the blow had fallen, the old man had thrown aside his unhallowed garb, and the calif's arm was arrested in mid air; for, instead of belted Gheber, stood before him, clothed in the garments of a sheik, the revered and sainted Ibrahim.

"What mystery, what magic is this?" exclaimed Haroun.

"No magic, my lord," replied the dervis; "and the mystery is easily explained. Years have passed away since I first entered thy dominions, wearing the weeds which I have just cast aside. In that garb I plunged beneath the waves, and redeemed from their depths thy long-lost treasure. Having thrown aside the garments of a Giaour while beneath the waters, and having cleansed my face from the filth and impurities with which I had disguised my features, I reappeared to your eyes robed as a dervis. Do not refuse belief—to one who had been unequalled as a diver in the gulf of Ormus, this deed were easy of performance."

"But thy words, as thou gavest me the ring?

That warning—whence came it? How fearfully has it been fulfilled!"

"Doubtless from Heaven, my lord, for I know not why I uttered it. But avert the evil which yet thou mayst. Forget not that thy promise is given. Spare, oh spare the Barmecides!"

"Thou hast thy boon, old man. Abassa, her, who was a princess and my daughter, thou hast preserved from a doom as terrible as that which has fallen upon her guilty, her ungrateful husband."

"If not for thy word's sake, in justice, in mercy, for the sake of thy soul's welfare, punish not the innocent."

"Thou talkest in vain," was the stern reply. "Allah alone can avert their fate. I have spoken. Pass to thy solitude—forget this world. More than mortal, thou hast detached thyself from its enjoyments; why, then, shouldst thou burden thyself with the sorrows that mingle here? Thou art self-denying—"

"Call me not so," interrupted the dervis. "It is thou, rather, that shouldst merit this name. I have indeed given up the things of this world, which are of no value, but thou deniest thyself those which are inestimable—the blessings of eternity."

"Leave, then, learned sage," said the Commander of the Faithful, unmoved, "the things of this life, which thou hast resigned, to one who has yet an interest in them. They will but distract thy mind from heaven. Depart to thy cell. Betake thyself to prayer and penance. Thou hast mine answer. Stay me no longer; it is in vain."

The sage buried his face in his robe, and the proud but unhappy monarch passed on.

Anxious to learn the first tidings of Giafar's fate, the old man retired without the gate of the city, and there awaited the return of the officer who had been intrusted with the execution of the prince. Long he tarried, looking earnestly across the plain which stretched itself to the south of the city, until the sun had reached the edge of the horizon; when, afar off upon the road, he perceived a cloud of dust. It approached, and a horseman, yes, two, are seen urging their steeds rapidly towards Bagdad.

"Is he alive? Can it be? Allah is merciful!" exclaimed the sage, in trembling accents.

In a few moments, to his indescribable joy, the dervis recognised the form and features of Giafar; and now they thunder by him into the city. The prince was unarmed, his garments soiled and dusted, his face pale, and he noticed not the good man as he passed him on his way to the royal palace. Uttering aloud his exclamations of delight, the dervis turned and hastily followed them.

With a ray of hope yet glimmering in his bosom, Giafar, accompanied by the executioner, had urged his horse in haste over the plain. The one upon which the officer was mounted had been ridden hard, and being unable to endure the rapid pace at which they spurred along, had fallen through fatigue. Some time elapsed ere his place could be supplied; yet, notwithstanding this occurrence, by dint of great exertion they had been enabled to reach Bagdad ere sunset. They rode into the city without abating their speed, and turned their course towards the mansion of the calif. When there, they dismounted, and Jasser with the prince ascended side by side the palace steps. At the door of the apartment where the calif was sitting they paused, and Giafar, turning without apparent emotion to his stern companion, said,

"Enter, and tell him that my head is without."

Jasser entered the calif's presence, and the prince, listening with dreadful interest, awaited the result without. After the entrance of the officer, there was a momentary silence, which was broken by the voice of the Commander of the Faithful.

"Thou art returned, then, Jasser?" he said.

"I am here, my lord," was the reply.

"Have my commands been obeyed?"

"They have, may it please the Commander of the Faithful; the head is without."

Naught but the imagination can depict the intense and agonizing emotion with which Giafar awaited the calif's reply. To his attentive ear, there is a tremour in his voice, which causes him to tremble with hope. It is not his master's—he would not know it for his. Yet a moment wait. There spake the calif—that is the monarch's voice, clear as in the hour of battle. Its dreadful intonations fell like ice upon the warm bosom of the prince.

"Thou hast well done, Jasser. Bring it to me."

Does the earth rock, or is it fancy? No! to the senses of the unhappy Giafar, the fabric of all human things is tottering from its base. At the rude voice of his master, hope flies away, and death, with all its bitterness, enters his soul. He lays aside his turban, he gathers his garments about him, he kneels, and bares his neck for the executioner. Confused sounds, as of many waters, fill his ears; light flashes across his eyes; he can see nothing—he can hear noth— Listen! 'tis his name! Again! 'Tis Azrael!—'tis the angel of death, and thrice he calls on Giafar. His hour is come!

At this moment the dervis, who had just gained the palace, came hastily forward, exclaiming,

"Forbear! Stay thine hand! There is yet pardon—"there is yet life for him."

"Away!" replied the sanguinary Jasser, "Hinder me not in mine office."

The old man rushed into the calif's presence; but the scimitar descended quickly. Impelled by envy, hatred, and ambition, it fell, severing with its merciless edge the neck of the unfortunate and accomplished prince. 'Tis over, and Abassa is alone. Her name, and his God's, were the last words upon his lips. May he dwell with them for ever. May his feet stand firm upon that perilous bridge, which stretches its narrow and dangerous passage over the abyss of darkness. Let no storm sweeping wildly across that vast country whither he has gone, hurry him from the path which leads to paradise, but, angel led, may he find that blessed abode, regain his deserted one, and be at peace! And shall he not? If he has prayed, or given alms, or performed any good work, has not the angel that stands ever at his right hand, written it down ten times?[18] If he has sinned, by the kind providence of Allah for seven hours must the evil spirit wait, ere he can record it; for peradventure he may pray, or ask pardon.

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CHAPTER XVI.

And back upon thyself revolves The pains, the sufferings, all the deadly tortures Which thou hast brought on others.

Tragedy of Orre.

When the Commander of the Faithful had retired to his palace, after his encounter with the hermit Ibrahim, he bitterly repented the precipitation with which he had urged the execution of his once-loved favourite. Here had occurred an opportunity for compromising with his anger and pride, nay, even a necessity to pardon, in redemption of plighted promise. But it came all too late. The minister of death had departed, the sentence was in his hand, and probably had by that time been executed.

Regret was unavailing, and its manifestation unworthy the dignity of his character. After his mind had recovered from that state of prostration and stupor, into which, from various causes, it had been thrown, nothing in the deportment of the calif displayed the remorse which was rending his bosom. His countenance was unmoved, and his voice firm. 'Tis true, at the entrance of the messenger of justice, when he first inquired after the fate of the prince, anxiety predominated slightly over his self-possession, showed itself in his face, and agitated his voice with that tremour, which lighted up a fleeting and vain hope in the then living bosom of Giafar. This emotion, however, passed in an instant, when Jasser announced to him that the deed was done—that the fate of his victim was sealed. He appeared well satisfied that his commands had been obeyed, and awaited, with an inward shuddering, the officer's return with the head. At that instant, a voice and the hasty step of feet were heard without, and the dervis rushed in wild haste into the apartment, exclaiming,

"He is alive!—he is without! Speak but a word, and save him!"

The calif rose in trembling agitation, and would have spoken aloud, but ere the words of mercy had passed his lips, a sound was heard, which in an instant sealed them. It was the dull sweep of the steel as it passed across the neck of the victim, telling harshly of his fate. Then the aged Ibrahim, overcome with horror, rending his robe, bowed down upon his face and wept aloud. Then the calif knew that all was over—that his friend had suffered even at his doors, almost in his presence, when a word, nay, the very sound of his voice, would have sufficed to save him. The trial was too terrific. He grasped his beard with an unconscious hand, plucking up his sable hairs by the roots, and sank back in horror upon the divan from whence he had arisen. The scream of anguish from which he with difficulty refrained, was suppressed into a stifled groan; and wafted across the apartment, seemed like the echo of the murdered Giafar's death sigh. But, in truth, no such sound of terror came from the prince's lips, even when the steel was doing its work upon him; and tenfold more than his sufferings, was that which it inflicted upon the heart of the listening, living calif.

The exertion of all his self-command was insufficient to enable Haroun to endure with dignity and calmness the presence of Jasser, when he returned bearing in his right hand the prince's head, yet warm and dripping with blood. He turned his eyes from the horrid spectacle, and said in a whisper, every syllable of which was distinctly audible, "How is this?—the head yet wet!—when was this done?"

"But now, my lord, without the door of the apartment," was the answer.

"Why thus in my very presence?" asked the calif.

"It was at the request of the prince himself, my lord," said the officer, "that it was thus delayed."

"Why?—for what purpose?"

"He hoped that my lord the calif would relent from his anger, and regret his death, when he heard that the sentence against him had been executed."

"Fool! fool!—he should have known his master better. Let it suffice;" and with his face buried in his hands, the calif remained silent. After an abstraction of some moments, he raised his head, and seeing Jasser yet standing in his presence, he said, "What dost thou here?"

"I await thine orders, my lord, respecting the body of the prince."

"Ah, true!" ejaculated the monarch, shuddering. "Call Mesrour and Ahmed," The officer obeyed.

Upon their entrance, Haroun, with his face averted in abhorrence, pointed to Jasser, and exclaimed, "There—that wretch!—strike off his head.[19] I cannot bear in my presence the murderer of Giafar." The command was executed immediately; and by an order equally arbitrary and unjust, the vindictive Jasser suffered the same fate which he had just inflicted upon the innocent prince.

Night was now beginning to cover the day with her sable mantle, and the monarch went forth. As he crossed the threshold, he started aside like a frighted steed, that swerves from the path at some sudden object of terror. The ready hand of an attendant of the palace had thrown a cloth of white linen over the body of the beheaded prince, but the form, the posture, and above all, the spouted gore that stained the spot, told the calif what rested beneath that shroud of white. He hurried on, anxious to escape from a scene of such horror, and the following day saw the Commander of the Faithful far from Bagdad.

Many months elapsed ere he returned to his capital. When he did so, his first and melancholy duty was to cause the severed members of the prince's body to be taken from the walls of the city, where, as was the custom, they had been exposed. They were carefully interred, and the tears of the repentant monarch and sorrowing friend were poured freely upon his grave. It was made in his gardens by the swift river. There a mound of earth, at the head of which stood a turban rudely carved in stone, for a long time told the spot where rested the remains of the vizier Giafar.

During the calif's absence, the sentence against the Barmecides had been rigidly executed. Iahia and his three sons were confined in a narrow prison, where they lingered until death released them from their sorrow. The sons, young and vigorous, struggled long with their sufferings; but their aged father, overcome with grief, soon sank under the weight of his misfortunes. After his death a paper was found in his bosom, containing the following sentence: "The accused goes before—the accuser will soon follow—both to appear before that Judge with whom legal forms and writings will avail nothing." "The calif," says the historian, "could not read it without tears."

The entire family was banished into the remote provinces of Persia; and though after the death of Haroun al Raschid many of them returned to Bagdad, yet it was to revisit, in a state of the most miserable poverty, the scene of their former magnificence.

Various and interesting are the tales which are related of the return of individuals of that unfortunate family, and of the gratitude and kindness with which they were often received by those who had once been dependants upon their bounty. Thus passed the race. Yet notwithstanding the stern decree of their destroyer, their name was long in the mouths, and their memory in the hearts, of the Persians.[20] Many poets have found ample theme for song in the history of their virtues and their misfortunes. Their prosperity was unexampled in the annals of the nation; for with their power they preserved the affections of the people. Their fall was terrible; a memorable instance of the instability of worldly happiness.

"Nursling of fortune," says an Eastern poet, "thou who suckest the milk of prosperity from her impoisoned breasts, boast not thyself too much of the happiness of thy condition, while thou art still in the cradle of life, suspended and tottering. Bethink thyself of the time when thou hast seen the grandeur of the Barmecides."

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CHAPTER XVII.

"But is not thy bright home sad to thee? Can another world give bliss Dearer than our love in this? Dost thou not sigh in thy bower for me?

Yet again our hour of meeting's nigh; I left my father's halls for thee: Death for thy sake is sweet to me; Our love was formed for eternity."

Exiled remotely, the once beautiful Abassa passed the short remainder of her life. From the first burst of grief and horror which overwhelmed her, when she heard of her husband's unhappy fate, she gradually settled into a state of quiet, but heart-corroding sorrow. The return of the old dervis, that brought her news of the prince's death, also announced to her the sentence of banishment which her father had pronounced against herself. But the blow had fallen that had crushed her happiness—to all grief that might follow she was insensible. This life was banishment to her. The world one place of exile. Her refuge was heaven, her home was there, and there, awaiting her, as he had said, was her lord. In parting with her sad mother, she evinced no sorrow; and the weeping

Zobeide wondered to see her daughter so calm, yet comfortless.

A few drops of comfort that assuaged, in some degree, her woe, were shed upon her bosom by the presence and kindness of the good Ibrahim. He had left the quiet of his hermitage, and accompanying the princess in her banishment, devoted himself to what he thought the only duty which remained to him on earth—to comfort his beloved pupil and mistress. For a few years he took off part of the burden which weighed upon her heart. At last, however, his faculties fast decayed. His eyes grew dim and thickly glazed. His ear, upon which fell with delight the voice of Abassa, closed to all sound. His voice lost its silvery clearness, and became thick and impeded in its utterance. Tired with the toils of life, a sweet sleep came upon the old man; yet, though paradise proffered to him its rest, he would have waked longer, and still watched over the happiness of his princess.

Not long tarried behind the lone Abassa. After the loss of the good dervis she quickly drooped. Like a weak flower, that has lost its sole support, she yielded to the weight of her sorrows. Unknown hands bore her to the tomb, and none strewed flowers o'er her grave, save a favourite slave, who gave that affecting testimony to the virtues of her mistress.

It is not thus we would recount her funeral obsequies. Friends in ready alternation, with hurried steps, should have borne her to the grave. The low, sweet chant of the muezzin, telling that a princess has departed, and the quick tramp of a long train of mourners, should have sounded in the "Cities of Silence." Bagdad's fairest daughters should have hung garlands upon her tomb. But she died in a land unknown, and unbeloved. Harsh tyranny cast its wintry blight upon her—and "Persia's Rose" sleeps unlamented, far from the palace of her sires. There the thorn, the willow, and the cypress, form a gloomy, yet sacred shade; and the rose and sweet briar are creeping in wild luxuriance over her neglected grave.

We have related her sad story with a heavy heart. We have attended her trembling steps along a rough and weary way, till they have led her to the tomb; and it is with feelings of relief, mingled with regret, that we leave her to rest sweetly, in its deep and enduring stillness. She has lingered full long alone amid her sorrows, and a kind welcome awaits her whither she has gone. Why grieve, then, at death, if happiness comes hand in hand with the stern visitant? Why shield the bosom from the stroke, when peace flies winged upon the welcome dart? Yet has she fallen early—fallen young—ere youth had thrown its warm garment fully upon her, its livery of beauty and of love. The roses upon her cheek were too fresh so soon to fade; her bosom was too young and warm to grow thus early cold. They may not murmur to depart, who have passed the meridian of life, or declined well down its vale. They have eaten and drunk; they have had their portion; they must soon look for the end. "Privileged guests, they cannot always be seated at the board." But to be called away when the alarm is ringing to the feast, or when the sweet viands are half tasted; when flowers are in the path, but none are gathered; when the cup is filling; when love and beauty are dawning in their earliest and brightest hues; when life is so dear—when it is young.

Weep for her, ye maidens, who are yourselves thus blithe, and thus attached to this sweet world. Weep for her, ye in years, if ye have a young friend that ye fear to lose, or the memory of one already gone. Weep for her, ye youth, if ye love one like her, and tremble for her safety; or if, grieving for the past, ye cherish the sweet image of the departed. Yet mourn not over long, either for your own griefs, or for the fate of this unfortunate. Happiness, doubtless, has many a home besides this earth. Shall not those, then, that have departed, of a surety find it?

THE END.

NOTES

————

1. See Tavernier's Travels.

2. Kaaba. Square building. According to the tradition of the Mohammedans, first built by Seth, the son of Adam. It was destroyed by the deluge, but was rebuilt by Abraham and his son Ishmael. This temple is the Keblah of all Mussulmen, or the place towards which they turn when they perform their devotions, in whatsoever part of the world they may be.—See D'Herbelot's Bibliothèque Orientale.

3. Samsamah. A sharp sword. More particularly a celebrated weapon which formerly belonged to a valiant Arab by the name of Amrou, and which afterward came into the hands of the Calif Haroun al Raschid. Amrou sent it to a prince, who complained that it did not the execution he expected. The reply of the owner was, that "he had not sent his arm with the sword."—D'Herbelot.

4. Keblah. See Note 2.

5. The reader will find that this scene has been in nowise exaggerated, if he will turn to chapter lii of Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, and read the description of an audience given by the Calif Moctader to ambassadors from Constantinople.

6. Haggion Alassovad. A black stone attached to one of the pillars of the porch to the temple at Mecca. Many wonderful qualities are attributed to this stone: to have at times such weight that many oxen and camels cannot move it—at times so light as to float upon water—to fatten a lean camel that carries it, and other fabulous properties.

7. For this letter of the Roman or Grecian Emperor to the calif, see Gibbon, ch. lii.

8. Such instances of despotism and devotion are not rare in oriental history. It is related of Aba Taher, a Carmathian chief, that having made an inroad into Persia, even to the gates of Bagdad, with no more than 500 horse, and being summoned by an officer from Abussage, the general of the Calif Moctader, to surrender, he demanded of the messenger how many troops his master had with him. The officer replied, "Thirty thousand." Abu Taher then made answer, "There are yet wanting to him three such men as mine." Whereupon having commanded three of his followers into his presence, he ordered the first to plunge a poniard into his throat, the second to cast himself headlong into the Tigris, and the third to leap from a precipice. His orders were instantly obeyed. The Carmathian then turned to the officer, and said, "He who has such soldiers counts not the number of his enemies. For thyself I offer thee good quarter; but thou shalt soon see Abussage thy general chained among my dogs." This threat was fulfilled.—See D'Herbelot.

9. A species of large falcon, bred for taking hares and antelopes.—Russell's History of Aleppo.

10. This incident is taken from a combat of Ali's, as related, if I mistake not, by D'Ohsson.

11. The dervises usually carry rosaries (tesbihs) consisting of one hundred beads, that being the number of the attributes of the Deity. The Mussulmen say that there are ninety-nine most excellent names of the Divinity, which, with that of Allah, make up the number of one hundred. It is customary with them, in their prayers to pronounce aloud these several names or attributes, as they pass the beads one by one through their fingers.—D'Herbelot.

12. Shooting stars are thought by the generality of Mohammedans to be lightning which is darted by angel watchers at those demons who approach too near the gates of paradise.

13. Kheder. A prophet of the Orientals, whom they suppose to have been the companion or counsellor of Alexander the Great, not the Macedonian, but a monarch of the same name and title who preceded him. He found the fountain of life, and having drunk of its waters, cannot die until the sound of the trumpet—that is to say, till the day of judgment.—D'Ohsson's Empire Othoman.

14. D'Herbelot relates of Barkiarok, son of Malek Schah, fourth sultan of the house of Seljuck, that in executing with his own hand a treacherous vizier, he cut off his head with such dexterity, that it remained on the shoulders until the body fell to the ground.

15. Adhab al Cabr. The punishment of the tomb. It is the general belief of the Mussulmen, that mankind are judged immediately after their death, and that they are tormented in their graves, before the final resurrection, if they have merited punishment by their sins.

16. See in chapter lii of Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, an account of a pilgrimage undertaken by Mahadi, the grandfather of Haroun.

17. The following miracle is attributed to Salih, the first of the Arabian prophets. In the midst of a pagan festival, at Higjeaz, he caused a female camel, with her young one, to come forth from the bowels of a dense rock, which prodigy effected the conversion of a great number of idolaters. A little time after, however, they returned to their errors, and Ahmer-Semoud had the impiety to hamstring the camel, whose cries, together with those of her young, brought down upon them the anger of God. A fearful voice was heard over all Arabia, which struck with death all the tribe of Semoud—a name since held in horror among the Arabians. Since that time public disasters are always announced by these words: "It is the fatal cry of the celestial camel."—See D'Ohsson.

18. It is an article of Mohammedan belief, that every man is accompanied through life by a good and evil angel. They have also a tradition, that the angel who notes a man's good actions, has the command over him who notes his evil actions; and when a man does a good action, the angel at his right hand writes it down ten times, and when he commits an ill action, the same angel says to the angel on the left hand, "Forbear setting it down for seven hours; peradventure he may pray, or ask pardon."—Sale's Koran.

19. The death of Jasser, the executioner of the prince, is thus related by D'Herbelot.

20. We read in the same author, upon whom we have drawn so largely for our facts, that the Calif Haroun forbade, on pain of death, that any person should make mention of the family. Notwithstanding this decree, an aged man named Mondir was accustomed to place himself before one of their houses which had been abandoned, and mounting upon a heap of earth, which served him as a sort of tribune or desk, he entertained the passers by with a recital of the noble actions of the family of the Barmecides, making at the same time their formal panegyric. The calif, having heard of the boldness of this man, ordered him into his presence, and condemned him to death for having disobeyed his commands. Mondir received his sentence with a smile, and only requested that he might be heard by the calif, before the execution should take place. This favour having been granted him, he made a long discourse, in which he related with much force the obligations under which he lay to the family of the Barmecides. The calif, who had listened patiently, was moved by his words, and not only pardoned him, but presented him with a vase of gold which lay upon the table. Having received this present from the hands of Haroun, after having prostrated himself at his feet, according to the usage of the court, the old man exclaimed, "Behold yet another favour which I receive at the hands of the Barmecides!" "These words of Mondir," continues our author, "have since passed into a proverb throughout Asia."