Persian Literature, Ancient and Modern

In his youth Hāfiz sang freely of love and wine, and his verse upon these themes too often betrayed a coarse sentiment, for it seems impossible for some bards to appreciate the perfect purity of honest affection. Of his love songs the following is the best:

THE FEAST OF SPRING.

As Hāfiz grew older he became attached to the Sufi^[276] philosophy, and his poetry contained so many figurative allusions that the Mussulmans called his productions “the language of mystery,” others claim that even his most sensual poems are figurative and should be thus interpreted. Of his graver poems the following is the best:

The poet’s life had been such that the clergy refused to read the burial service over his body when he died, his friends, however, obviated the difficulty by stratagem, and it was decided that scattered couplets from his odes should be placed in a bowl and drawn therefrom by a child, the disposition of the body to be settled by the sense of the couplet thus drawn out. The child took out the following distich:

And upon the strength of the evidence thus received the body was given an honorable burial.

FIFTH PERIOD.

The fifth period of her literature, beginning with the fourteenth century, and ending about the close of the fifteenth, marks a stationary condition in the Persian world of letters.

The sons and grandsons of Timūr, although at variance in their political interests, vied with each other in the encouragement of scholars, and for a time the literary world retained its brilliancy. Astronomy as well as history flourished at this period, and great mathematicians were also in favor with royalty.

JĀMI.

The most distinguished poet of this period was Nuruddīn Abdurrahman, who very wisely chose the briefer and more euphonious name of Jāmi. He was a native of Jām, a small town near Herāt, the capital of Khorasān, and it was from this circumstance that he called himself Jāmi, which signifies a drinking cup, as well as a native of Jām.

It is said that he began his career as a student of science, and attained great proficiency in his chosen field of investigation, but wishing to learn the mysteries of the philosophy of the Sufis, he became a pupil of the Shaikh al Islām Saaduddin, and remained with him until he became a master of the mystic doctrine. On the death of the Shaikh, he succeeded to his position, and filled it so well that kings and princes came from distant lands to obtain his advice, while his home was the resort of scholars, as well as court officials.

He was not only the most celebrated poet of his time, but, in the opinion of many, he was superior to his predecessors, and being also a Doctor of the Musselman law, he was honored by all the princes and nobles of the age in which he lived.

He was the last great poet and mystic of Persia, and he seemed to combine the moral tone of Sā’dī, with the imagination of Jalal-uddin, the ease of Hāfiz, and the pathos of Nizāmī.

He was a master of the Persian language and a most prolific author; Shir Khān Lūdi, in his “Memoirs of the Poets,” claims that he was the author of ninety-nine different works, which continue to be admired in all parts of Īrān and Hindūstān.

The enormous expense which has been incurred in the illumination of fine transcripts of his manuscripts, indicates the high position which his works still occupy in the literature of the East.

A work entitled “Khorasān in Affliction” was transcribed at Lahore for the Emperor of Hindūstān, during the sixteenth century,^[279] which represents an expenditure of many thousand dollars. The calligraphy is the work of a famous scribe, who, on account of his beautiful penmanship, was called “The Pen of Gold.”

Sixteen eminent artists were engaged in the embellishment of this manuscript of one hundred and thirty-four pages; five were employed upon the illuminations and marginal arabesques; and five upon the finely colored illustrations; there were three engaged upon the hunting scenes and animals, while three others painted the faces in the vignettes and margins.

The leaves of the book are of soft silken Kashmīrian paper, tinted in the softest shades of various harmonious colors. The broad margins are illuminated with chaste designs painted with liquid gold, and no two pages are alike. Some of these designs represent mosaic work, others are in running patterns, and many of them are delineations of field sports, where the simple outlines of gold indicate, with marvelous accuracy, the various forms of animal life. This was placed in the library of Shāh Jehān,^[280] with the emperor’s autograph, as the gem of his collection, and underneath it is a second autograph of another of the royal descendants of Timūr.

This elaborate manuscript is not only indicative of the great popularity of Jāmi, but it also shows the liberal patronage which existed for all works of art under the princes of the house of Timūr. The grave of Jāmi is at Herāt, where he was laid^[281] at the age of eighty-one years, and this illustrious name completes the list of the seven great poets of Persia who have been called “The Persian Pleiades.”

THE WORKS OF JĀMI.

Although this author was a voluminous writer, still his most important works may be briefly summarized; there is a book on ethics and education containing anecdotes and fables, written both in prose and verse, after the manner adopted by Sā’-dī, and like the Gūlistān, it is divided into eight chapters.

One of his books, entitled “Irshad” or “Instructions,” was dedicated to a Turkish Sultan—Al Fāteh, “The Conqueror.” “The Seven Thrones” is considered by an eminent native critic^[282] to combine the most exquisite compositions in the Persian language, except the “Five Poems” of the celebrated Nizāmī. The seven gems which are thus alluded to bear the following titles: (1) The Chain of Gold; (2) Selmān and Absāl; (3) The Present of the Just; (4) The Rosary; (5) The Loves of Lailī and Majnūn; (6) Yūsuf and Zulaikhā; (7) The Book of Alexander the Great.

The character of Jāmi’s style may be represented by the following extract from Yūsuf and Zulaikhā, which is a description of the reception of a Persian bride at an Egyptian court:

RECEPTION.

THE SIXTH PERIOD.

The sixth period, beginning near the close of the fifteenth century, and extending to about the commencement of the seventeenth, marks a gradual decline in poetry, although history and other literature still attract much attention. The so-called poets of this age are unworthy of notice, but a few good Persian historians made their appearance.

India now began to vie with Persia in the production of great historical works, under the government of the Mongol emperors from Baber downwards. The pantheistic doctrines of the Sufis were doubtless brought into Persia from India, and both the Rāmāyaṇa and the Mahā-bhārata were translated into Persian by the order of Akbar. This monarch was the most enlightened sovereign that ever reigned on the throne of India. He was the patron, not only of learning and art, but he also richly rewarded the calligraphers and other artists that he employed to copy and illustrate Persian manuscripts. This illustrious patron of Persian literature was a descendant of Timūr, and therefore belonged to the race of Mongol emperors, usually styled the “Great Moguls.” The history of his own times was provided for by the appointment of forty-four historians, ten of whom were on duty each day to record every event as it occurred. By Akbar’s order the “History of a Thousand Years” was composed, several authors being engaged upon it, each one having a certain number of years assigned to him. A society for literary composition had thus been organized in India about two hundred years before that of Guthrie and Grey had been established in England.

THE SEVENTH PERIOD.

The seventh period, beginning near the close of the sixteenth century and continuing until about the end of the eighteenth, shows a marked decline in Persian literature. With Shāh Akbar^[283] and Shāh Abbas,^[284] who occupied respectively the thrones of India and of Persia, the brilliancy of Persian literature, and especially of her poetry, entirely disappeared. During this period no poet has arisen above mediocrity, and no historian has appeared who could be compared with his predecessors. The successors of Akbar, it is true, left contributions to the history at their time, and a valuable dictionary of the Persian language was compiled from forty similar works, but in lieu of poetry and history, letter-writing began to flourish in both India and Persia. Elegant calligraphy was now carried to an extreme, and a vast amount of time and labor were expended upon private as well as official letters. The state secretaries vied with each other in the production of elaborate credentials for their ambassadors, and generally men of education who were well read in the best Persian poets, and able to recite their best passages, when occasion permitted, were selected for ambassadors.

From the time of Nadīr Shāh up to the present, Persia has suffered many revolutions, wars and famines, and although they could not destroy the admiration still bestowed upon their great poets, the genius of the race appears to have become extinct. The poetry of the eighteenth century is of little value, and the dominant spirit of the nineteenth is pure mysticism, as embodied in the doctrines of the Sufis.

Nations, as well as individuals, have their periods of mental growth and decay, and when once fallen they seldom rise again. History, however, has some splendid exceptions to this rule, and Persia has had three successive periods of intellectual prosperity,—three times has the national spirit awakened as from a torpor, and for a season it has gleamed like a star in the Orient, but three times it has either died out, or been crushed beneath the storm of conquest.

Elated with their success under the brilliant leadership of Cyrus, a change which was almost fatal took place in Persian character, between his reign and that of Darius. Thus his own people proved the truth of the warning words of Cyrus, to the effect that “the effeminate clime produces effeminate inhabitants, nor can the same soil produce excellent fruits and men who are valiant in war.”^[285] Under the Sassanian kings, however, the national spirit revived, and the literature of Persia sprang to life, only to be trampled beneath the foot of the Arabian invader. Toward the close of the ninth century her world of letters again revived and flourished in various forms during the six periods which have been previously discussed.

Henceforth she has a national literature, with its own peculiar faults as well as beauties, even though her best works belong to her past. No poetry has ever been more peculiarly national than that of Persia, for three centuries her lyre has been virtually silent, and yet her people cherish with peculiar fondness the memory of her poets. The finest odes of Hāfiz and the most beautiful passages of her Shāh Nāmah still live, even in the memory of her peasants; and the sorrows of Lailī and Majnūn will be chanted by Persian and Arab as long as the sons of the desert are found amidst the roses of Īrān.

PERSIAN ROMANCE—THE TWO COMRADES—THE SEPARATION—THE QUEEN—THE DEPARTURE—THE ANNOUNCEMENT.

Persian romance, as well as Persian poetry, is burdened with florid description, and the redundancy of style which is everywhere found in the works of even their best authors makes them tedious to the reader. In these books of Oriental romance, it often happens that a new story is begun before the first is finished, being introduced as a narrative by one of the characters, and the second is in turn interrupted by a third, when the author apparently forgets to finish any one of his fables except the last. Whole volumes are constructed in this way, legends being repeated as often by a bird or an animal as by men and women. Story-telling was esteemed a great accomplishment in the East, and those who excelled in the art were favorites at court as well as in other grades of society. It sometimes happened that a victim who had been selected for capital punishment, either deservedly or otherwise, could save his life if he could find an opportunity of telling a pleasing tale to some official, who would bear the news of his ability to the king. Royalty considered this an easy method of entertainment, and the members of the harem as well as the princes of the courts were often favored in this way. It sometimes happened that a favorite of the king owed her position in the affection of his majesty to the fact that she could entertain him for hours together with pleasing myths of her own composition.

In the life of Bāhram Gor, the poet prince, his seven wives are represented as competing with each other for the royal favor by weaving various romances for his amusement. But amidst all the literary rubbish which is thus formulated for the public eye, there is an occasional gem which is well worthy of preservation. One of these is an affecting story of fraternal love which was written by Assar, an author of much ability, although the Persian chronicles have preserved but little concerning his life. The story of Meher and Mūshteri is considered the masterpiece of Persian romance, and as it is deservedly a favorite with the literati of the East, we give a brief outline of the story, which in the original fills a superb manuscript of four hundred and thirty-four pages. It is transcribed in beautiful Nastaalik characters, within lines of red, blue, and gold, on paper which is richly powdered with gold. The double title page is also richly ornamented, and the heads of the chapters are illuminated in four colors, while the text is illustrated with miniature paintings.^[286] The plot, the characters and the incidents are of Persian origin; the author has chosen, however, to tell the story in simpler form and briefer phrase than any Persian writer would present it.

Far from the dangerous boundaries, which were repeatedly crossed and recrossed by invading kings, stood the beautiful city of Persepolis. Amidst the mountains of Persia, the foundations of her palaces were laid upon the solid rock, and the gray marble pillars reached upward to hold cornice and roof above the gilded galleries.

Within were tesselated floors, and fountains whose silvery spray was perfumed with the costly odors of the East.

The walls were hung with pictured annals of earlier thrones, and draped with the richest tapestries of Persian looms, while silver urns gleamed here and there, bearing fragrant fires fed with costly sandal wood, or the spicy rods from more distant lands.

Beside this marble city there flowed the river Pulwār. Springing from the dark mountains in the distance, it came down to water the gardens of kings; the sunlight tinted its waves with gold, the blossoms opened their velvet hearts upon its banks, and rich odors were wafted from clusters of pink and purple.

The gray mountains stood like guardian kings above the capital city, wearing crowns of snow and the heavy forest grew around their feet.

Here were gathered the treasures of Persia, the crown jewels, and the imperial regalia, besides other wealth in goodly store; but the conquering troops of Alexander marched upon the mountain city, her store-houses were plundered, her palaces were destroyed, and her people massacred by the ruthless invader.

It was afterward rebuilt, and, under the name of Iśtaker, it became the capital of Shapur, the Sassanian king, who reigned with justice over his great domain. He was blessed with a Vizīr, who was not only wise and just, but also most loyal to his king; there was no service that he would not gladly perform and by his wisdom and discretion he was enabled to greatly lighten the responsibilities of royalty.

For a long time neither the king nor his faithful Vizīr were blessed with children, but after a time a son was born to the royal house, and while the songs of joy and shouts of congratulation were still ringing through the land, a child was given to the grand Vizīr.

The young heir of the Persian throne was named Meher (the sun), while the son of the Vizīr was called Mūshteri, or Jupiter. So intimate were the relations between the monarch and his principal officer, that the two beautiful children were brought up almost together; they saw each other daily, even during their early childhoodchildhood, and when it was time to educate them they were taught by the same masters. They learned to ride, to bear arms, and a little later in life they entered upon the study of the sciences together. A strong attachment sprung up between them, and long before they reached the age of manhood, they were united to each other by a bond as strong as that of fraternal love; there was no feeling of superiority on the one hand, no shade of envy on the other, but hand in hand with each other, life seemed one long dream of happiness.

There was one official, however, of the king’s house-hold, who looked with disfavor upon this growing intimacy, for in time the young heir would wear the crown of Persia, and then, unless their friendship could be destroyed, the playmate of his childhood would surely occupy the highest position within the gift of the king. The politic father at last succeeded in having his own son Behrām appointed as the attendant of the prince, and the son, who was fully in sympathy with his father’s evil designs, became a spy upon the conduct of his master. The innocent boys worked or played together in their happy friendship, all unconscious of the schemes of their enemies; but at last the father of Behrām succeeded in persuading the tutor of the boys, that Mūshteri was not a proper associate for the heir of the throne. The tutor was a kind and benevolent man, but he was somewhat advanced in years, and the testimony of Behrām was so strong and so carefully prepared that he innocently fell into the bold conspiracy, and when requested to do so he informed the king that the son of the Grand Vizīr was not a suitable companion for the prince.

THE SEPARATION.

The monarch was greatly excited by the advice of the tutor, and the conspirators took good care that other reports should be borne to his ears at the proper time, so at last he sent for his faithful Vizīr and angrily commanded him to remove his son at once, and to see that no further communication took place between the two youths.

The Vizīr took steps to enforce the unreasonable decree, but he was sorely grieved, both by the evident cruelty of the command and the unusual severity of the monarch, who for years had been, not only his king, but also his warm personal friend. The tutor was ordered to attend the prince in his own chambers, but the unhappy boy was in no mood for study, and the work that had given him pleasure when his friend was by his side became so irksome that the old tutor despaired of any success in his efforts.

Mūshteri bore up bravely for a time in his cruel banishment, but at last he drooped beneath his long suffering and fell seriously ill. He had a faithful attendant, a boy named Bader, who volunteered to bring to his master some tidings from his friend, and to this end he bribed the tutor to allow him to visit him while he was instructing the prince.

He thus obtained access to the apartments of Meher, but Behrām, the ever watchful and envious attendant, was constantly on the alert, and for a long time there was no opportunity for Bader to communicate in any way with the prince. At last, however, Meher succeeded in writing to his friend, and confided the letter to the care of Bader; an occasional correspondence was thus carried on until Behrām obtained one of the letters, which he hastened to lay before the king.

Finding that his express commands were being disobeyed, the anger of the Shāh knew no bounds, and sending for Mūshteri and his faithful attendant he ordered them both to be executed in the royal presence. Meher was also brought into the presence of his indignant father, and after being bitterly reproached for his love for his friend, the command was given that he too should be executed. A thrill of horror ran through the suite of attendants when they heard this inhuman decree, and Behzād, who was a nephew of the king, threw himself at the feet of the monarch and pleaded for mercy for the victims; his plea was treated with scorn, and for a time it looked as if the intercessor might share in the fate of the condemned. But the brave boy was undaunted by the royal displeasure, and continued to plead, even while he was answered by threats, until at last the king consented to pardon Mūshteri and Bader upon condition that they leave the kingdom at once and forever, while the punishment of the prince was commuted to imprisonment. Still it was feared that the king might even yet order the culprits beheaded, and Behzād hastily supplied them with wardrobes, money and horses, advising them to make all possible haste in leaving the Shāh’s dominions.

The Vizīr was tenderly attached to the prince, and knowing that he was imprisoned and constantly in the power of a father whose whole nature had been changed by evil associations, he grieved as much for him as for his own banished boy; he grieved, too, over the estrangement which bad influences had been able to effect in the heart of his royal friend towards himself, and being advanced in years, his health gradually failed beneath the weight of care and suffering.

One day the news was brought to the palace that the faithful Vizīr was dead, but so completely was the king in the power of his evil counsellors that he scarcely seemed to care for a loss which would have caused him the greatest pain when his mind was in a normal condition. The faithful Behzād was untiring in his efforts for the release of the prince, and the king found also that the mother of the captive was very far from approving of the course of her husband, even though she said very little upon the subject, and after a time he was released. Finding himself again at liberty, the prince paid no attention to his royal father, but he went where his heart told him that he should find a warm welcome—to the apartments of his mother.

THE QUEEN.

The dark-eyed queen sat alone in her splendid rooms, for she had sent her maids away. Around her was all the beauty and luxury that art could furnish or money could purchase; the ceilings of her apartments were wrought in the richest mosaicsmosaics, and the walls sparkled with designs which seemed to be traced with diamonds.^[287]

The rooms were draped with the richest portiéres of Kermān, and the pure white centres were surrounded with heavy borders, where the soft colors were blended in floral design; behind those Persian hangings were vases of silver and gold where burned the costly gums from Thibet, filling the air with the fragrance of incense.

The great windows opened into gardens where the citrons and rose-apples kept their bright blossoms and gleaming fruits, and the broad leaved bananas waved their silken flags in the sunlight. There were fountains where jets of water, smooth and unbroken, gleamed like silver in the sunshine, and in the marble basins below them the birds dipped their wings in the cooling wave, and the bulbul sang of mornings without clouds.

But amidst all the splendor which surrounded her, the eyes of the queen were heavy with unshed tears; there were no flowers in her dark hair, no jewels upon her shapely neck, for her heart was with her lonely boy in his prison cell, and all her womanhood rebelled against the cruelty of the Shāh. He who had been so kind, so just, so loving in his home, had yielded himself so completely to the influence of his evil advisers that his whole character seemed transformed. He was no longer gentle, patient and loving, even to his wife; he was selfish and irritable, being possibly troubled with some pangs of conscience, although he was a man of such intense egotism that he usually looked upon his own conduct with the utmost complacency.

A gentle knock disturbed the sad reverie of the queen, and in a moment more her boy was in her arms; in her splendid isolation she had not learned of his release, and the welcome that she gave him showed that he had not been mistaken in the unfailing strength of mother-love. Long they remained together, talking softly of the happy past and the future with its threatening clouds; the boy dared not stay within reach of the unreasonable father, who was liable at any moment to throw him into prison, or hasten him away to the executioner, and he was also anxious for the fate of the loyal friend who had suffered banishment for his sake. He was determined therefore to leave the Shāh’s dominions, and he had come to his mother for her consent and her blessing.

It was a sad trial to the queen, but true love is ever self-sacrificing, and she could not ask him to stay in constant danger, preferring rather that he should risk the unknown perils of a strange land.

Another difficulty, however, presented itself. Meher had no money, his allowance having been cut off at the beginning of the trouble with his father, and the queen was no better supplied, for the women of the East were not supposed to have judgment enough to handle anything more than the very small amounts required for the purchase of a few trinkets which were comparatively worthless.

At length, however, the queen arose and went to a casket of jewels, where rubies and amethysts reflected their color in the light of diamonds whose purity seemed to mock the sunlight. Taking up in her shapely hands the glittering mass of stones, she carried them to her son and begged him to take them all; he refused to do so, saying that a very small portion of these radiant gems would amply satisfy his modest needs. The mother, however, pressed upon him a goodly share of them, for they would be current in any clime, and being small in bulk they were easily carried. Hours were passed in this last interview, for the mother felt that she might never look into his loved face again, and she clung to him with a devotion that would not be denied.

At last, however, he was compelled to bid her adieu, and make his preparations for departure; his own magnificent Arabian steed was standing in the royal stables, besides several other horses which were rightfully his, though they were usually mounted by his attendants. There were also among his friends, three young men whose loyalty he knew that he could depend upon, and to them he hastily communicated his wishes; these Persian youths were not averse to adventure, and an opportunity to see the great world around them, in the company of the prince, was a temptation which they could not resist.

THE DEPARTURE.

Softly the night came over the Persian city, and the moon swung high above the eastern peaks, as the cool air floated down from the mountains and caught the fragrant breath of the night-flowers in the valley. There was the cautious tread of trained horses, for so sensitive were the high-bred steeds that they caught the spirit of their riders as the little cavalcade moved slowly out of the massive gateway. The moonlight touched the river with silver, and all the sleeping land lay hushed in fragrance, while the prince and his three faithful attendants rode slowly down beside the stream and took the road leading to Hindūstān. Thus they journeyed onward in easy stages until they reached the seaside, where merchant-ships were trimming their white sails for long voyages; here they were compelled to sell their horses, and the prince stood long beside his petted steed, stroking the shapely head and arching neck, while the magnificent animal pushed his face closely to that of his master, and received the caresses with sadness, as if he too knew that a long separation was coming. The dark eyes of Meher were heavy with tears as he bade his faithful horse good bye, and stepped upon the ship that was to bear him far away from his home, and far away from the loving mother who wept alone in her splendid apartments.

THE ANNOUNCEMENT.

In the rich audience room of the Persian palace the Shāh was seated upon the massive throne, and robed in royal raiment; he was holding a council with his high officials, when a messenger was announced who bore news of the greatest importance to the king. Then he learned that the heir of his throne had deserted his domain, and was perhaps even now beyond the reach of pursuit. The anger of the monarch was so uncontrolled that his court officials were paralyzed with fear, knowing that any one of them who spoke an unfortunate word might be hurried away to the executioner. But his rage soon gave way to the most heart-rending grief, and he demanded that he be carried at once to the apartments of his wife. Half fainting and wholly helpless, he was taken through the luxurious halls and fragrant gardens to the rooms of the queen. Here he was laid upon the soft couch, rich with its costly cushions and embroidered hangings; the anger of the indignant woman was softened by his evident suffering, and she ministered gently to his needs, and listened to his wailings for his only child. His pride was broken and his vindictiveness conquered, for he could see only a cruel death for the unfortunate fugitive, who knew so little how to care for himself among the barbarous tribes whither he had doubtless gone.

For many hours he lay thus, and when he returned the next day to the duties of his court, it was only to be approached by the hypocritical Behrām, who was ever on the watch for an opportunity to promote his own interests at the expense of others.

He came into the royal presence affecting the greatest grief for the loss of his young master, and pleaded with the Shāh for an expensive outfit, that he might follow him and bring him back.

“Give me,” said he, “a caravan, in order that I may pass for a merchant, and thus travel without suspicion through the country, and I will find my young master or lose my life in the attempt.”

“My ever faithful servant,” replied the king, “I will give thee camels and money and goods and slaves, and thou shalt follow him even to the far countries beyond my realm; if he is alive thou wilt bring him back, for I know that I can depend upon thy loyalty to thy young master.”

Only a few days elapsed before a costly caravan was equipped, and Behrām passed through the gates of the city with a long line of camels laden with rich merchandise, and twenty slaves to do his bidding. He went exulting on his mission, for if he found and returned the fugitive he was sure of a rich reward, while if he failed he had wealth enough in his caravan to enable him to live in affluence in other lands far beyond the power of the Shāh.

Mūshteri and his solitary companion passed out of the city by the light of the morning sun on the day after their release, for except a few faithful friends there were none who cared whither the victims of the Shāh’s displeasure might go, as long as they obeyed the royal edict.

The sorrowful exiles rode slowly onward, all unmindful of the beauty of the morning, which was gilding with glory the crowns of the palm-trees. They were leaving behind them all that they held most dear, and going forth into the world with no provision for the future, save the little sum that the generous Behzād had been able to provide.

Merely to gratify the unreasonable whim of a royal autocrat, they were thus banished from home and friends, and with hearts full of bitterness they scarcely cared whither they went.

They had taken the road to Isfahān, but before they reached the city they saw in the distance an old gray castle which looked as if it had withstood the storms of centuries, and with half a mind to test the hospitality of the occupants, they reined their horses toward it. The castle gates were opened as if some kindly eye had noted their coming, but a little band of horsemen issued therefrom, and, fearing some unfriendly act, the travelers turned away. Their caution came too late, for in a moment more they were attacked and overpowered by the banditti, and being bound they were carried captive to the castle where they had hoped for a kindly reception.

Here they were robbed of every article of value upon their persons, and an order was issued for their execution; but behind the Persian hangings of the castle hall there were white hands moving nervously amidst the rich colors of silken embroidery, and a woman’s heart listened breathlessly to the cruel death sentence.

Then the beautiful wife of the chief went to her room, and sent a messenger into the council of the banditti with an urgent summons for the presence of her lord.

“How canst thou be so cruel?” she demanded with flashing eyes, “hast thou not robbed these illfated youths of every jewel upon their persons—nay hast thou not even taken the most costly articles from their wardrobes? Why shouldst thou add to thy guilt the crime of murder?” Half ashamed of his cruel decree, and wholly afraid of forfeiting the respect of his wife, the chieftain promised to commute their punishment, and hastily returning to the castle hall he demanded that the captives be taken to the desert and abandoned without food amidst its pitiless sands.

And thus it happened that Mūshteri and his faithful Bader found themselves alone and destitute in a desert where no caravans might pass for many months—where no palm-tree lifted its plumes in the distance, to tell of the spring in the oasis beneath its feet. The evening was cool and restful, even in the desert, and the exiles slept, for their lives were spared, and though their chance was small, it was surely better than certain death.

But the sun arose as if in anger, and as it climbed higher and higher the air became hot as that crimson haze, by which the prostrate caravan is often buried in the red desert, when the simoon is abroad on its mission of death. They wandered hopelessly, looking in vain for some sign of an oasis, until overpowered by the intense heat, Mūshteri, still weak from recent illness, fell upon the burning sand. Then Bader bent above him, trying to shield him from the pitiless sun as far as possible, by the shelter of his own body, and thus they remained until night came down again with its cooling shadows. They passed day after day in terrible suffering, until all hope of relief had fled, and they awaited the coming of death with hope rather than fear.

The faithful Bader was no longer able to shield his master with his own body, but lay helpless by his side, when the sun again came forth from the chambers of the east and began to beat upon them with apparently redoubled fury; but the boy raised his head to search once more the fiery horizon, and in the distance he seemed to see the figure of a camel. He wondered if the delirium of death was cheating him with a hope of deliverance, and he gazed until another seemed to appear behind the first; then he aroused Mūshteri by telling him of his great hope, and together they watched what seemed to be the slow coming of a caravan. After a time a long line of camels could be seen moving patiently and wearily over the heated sands, but they were not coming directly toward the exiles, and unless they could change their position considerably, the caravan must pass them far to the southward. With an effort they struggled to their feet, and Bader, who was still the stronger, partially supported Mūshteri, while they slowly and painfully traveled toward the line of the caravan’s march. They could now see that the camels were laden, apparently with goods, and it was probably some merchant’s expedition returning from a long journey.

They tried to call attention by waving their hands, but their efforts remained unnoticed, and Mūshteri sank once more with exhaustion. Bader could now see no hope of deliverance, but the master insisted that his attendant should push onward, leaving him to be rescued when the caravan had been reached; reluctantly he did so, and Mūshteri anxiously watched his friend as he slowly approached the line of march, trying with frantic gesture to attract their attention. Would he succeed, or must they die within the very sight of aid? At last the foremost camel turned his head, and courage revived the efforts of the man who was struggling toward him, while hope lighted the heart of the faint watcher upon the desert sands; but the camel turned away again and with long swinging step resumed his way to the southward—nay, he seemed to lengthen and quicken his pace, while his head pointed straight towards the horizon as if the wide nostrils were drinking in the welcome smell of water. A cloud had been gathering in the west, and when it floated over the blazing sun the soft shades of gray brought relief to the strained eye and a passing shelter from the fierceness of the heat. It seemed to give new life to Bader, and he struggled on with renewed hope, passing slowly over the long reaches of sand which were sometimes smooth as the beaten beach, and again were heaped together in long ridges like the drifted snow of a northern clime.

At last a driver turned his head, and fancied that he saw a dark object upon the pathless tract; he looked again, thinking there were signs of life, then he called to his companion, and the two drivers gazed until they were sure it was a man upon the desert waste; a halt was called, and then the course of the caravan was slightly changed, and the line bore down toward Bader. He was sure it was coming, and the reaction was so strong upon his exhausted frame that he fainted before it reached him, but onward came the great camels careening like ships on the sea of sand, swinging forward with long elastic tread; noiselessly they came, keeping the line so exactly that they all seemed to step in the very tracks of the leader. The exhausted man was taken up and a gurglet of skin containing water was brought from their stores, when the kindly leader sponged the face and hands of the exile; a little of the precious water was forced down his throat and then nature caught eagerly at the great restorative and he drank of the life-giving fluid.

The owner of the caravan was Mohiār, a Persian merchant, and he quickly ordered food for the sufferer; out of the strange baskets, closely woven from the fibers of the palm, they took dates and Syrian pomegranates, wine in gurglets of skin, and meats which were dried and smoked, but Bader, being unable to eat or to speak, was placed in a cot suspended by the side of a camel, and the caravan made ready to depart.

They had traveled a little way before the agonized man was enabled to tell them that his friend lay dying on the desert sands; then the line was turned again, and soon Mūshteri heard the tinkling bells fastened to the brazen chains of the camels; soon he saw their long slender necks and the scarlet fringe upon the bridle across their foreheads; he saw them, but in a dazed, indifferent way, as if it mattered little to him whence they came or whither they went. But in a moment more he was raised in strong arms, and water, life-giving water, passed over his face and was poured down his swollen throat. They were soon able to taste of refreshing fruits, and then the caravan moved on its course, carrying the exiles upon restful cushions, while above them was stretched a kindly shade. That night they rested beside a cool spring and beneath the trees of an oasis; the generous Mohiār ordered a stay of a few days at the feet of the cooling palms that his own men, and especially the weakened exiles, might become refreshed. They were then taken beyond the desert boundaries and generously entertained at the city of their host.

A SHIPWRECK.

Although in the care of hospitable friends they were still in the dominions of the Shāh, and liable at any moment to be apprehended and punished; therefore as soon as they were strong enough their host provided them with a little money, and with his own horses carried them down to the shores of the Caspian Sea, where a ship was standing in port, ready to start on a trading voyage to other lands.

Fearful of losing this opportunity they had traveled all the latter part of the night, and they stepped upon the deck of the merchant-ship in the early morning. After they had bidden their friends farewell, Mūshteri turned thoughtfully toward the soft green waves beyond him and said to his friend: “Surely here is a welcome change from the desert waste; the cooling breath of the water has a caressing touch, and the morning light is strewing the sea with opals.”

“Ah, yes!” replied Bader, “the sea hath no perils like the desert heat,—better the cooling wave, even though it wraps our dying limbs than the hot breath of the simoon, and a terrible death amidst the bleaching bones of perished caravans.”

Soon the order was given to raise the anchor, and with a merry shout the sailors sprang to their task; the ship drifted outward, slowly at first, and then as her sails caught the welcome breeze she sped over the waves like a thing of life.

The exiles felt that they were at last beyond the reach of the unreasonable monarch, beyond the reach of the Persian banditti, and far from the torrents of burning sand rolling before the desert winds, and they looked into each other’s eyes with renewed hope and gratitude. Day after day passed by in restful calm, but the water itself was an ever-changing picture to the loving eye of Mūshteri; the early morning found him always on the deck watching the waves and listening to the changing voices of the sea.

One night he sat alone at his favorite post, even the faithful Bader had grown weary and gone to his nightly rest, but Mūshteri was watching the evening star, that seemed to lie cool and dim in the moving water; the young moon was swinging high in the heavens, while her faint light touched the waves with silver and gleamed on the white wings of the night-birds. But a quick wind caught the sail and a cloud swept over the face of the moon, the sailors sprang to their posts and orders were hastily given. A storm was gathering in the eastern sky and soon the sails were reefed and the good ship was placed in readiness to ride out as best she could the coming peril.peril.

The Persian youth had no thought now of leaving his post; if the sea had been beautiful in her peaceful sleep, how much grander was the picture when the storm-spirit swept her waves into a fury,—when the wind smote the rigging like the edge of a hissing spear and the breakers dashed angrily against the hull. As the danger grew more imminent he went below and aroused Bader, but even while they were coming on the deck he perceived that the storm was increasing in fury and the gale was driving the helpless ship before it.

They were at the mercy of the blast, and soon a fearful shock told the story of the good ship’s doom: she had struck a rocky coast and rapidly her timbers parted. The two exiles were thrown together into the water, but after a few minutes of struggling and swimming, Mūshteri caught a floating beam and at last succeeded in getting himself and Bader to this position of temporary safety. The storm still raged, but they clung to this their only hope of life, while the greater part of the passengers and crew were drowned around them.

At last the tempest had exhausted its fury; the winds moaned over the angry billows and the sorrowing sea-birds wept; the morning star gleamed behind the passing clouds, but it looked upon a scene of desolation. After striking the coast the ship had floated back in fragments, while here and there a human being clung to a portion of the wreck, but they were now too far from the shore to be able to reach it, and there was little hope that they would be seen and rescued. All day they tossed upon the waves—all day they looked anxiously for aid, but night came down without hope, and another morning found them still at the mercy of the waters. A beautiful land covered with stately trees lay like a mirage in the distance, but no friendly wave carried them to the shore.

THE RESCUE.

The king of Derbend was hunting on the coast, and the wild gor that he was pursuing ran close to the water’s edge, where he received the fatal arrow before the king’s suite had overtaken the royal rider. While the monarch waited the coming of his attendants he rested beneath a tree and looked out upon the waste of waters; there he saw fragments of the wreck, and looking more closely he fancied there were human beings beyond. When his suite came up he ordered a boat to be manned, and soon the victims of the storm were gathered upon his hospitable shore; they were chilled, exhausted, and some of them died even there beneath the friendly hands that strove to bring the life-tide back.

Mūshteri and his friend were among the survivors and they became the guests of the generous king, who soon learned their story and took them to his palace home not far from the shore.

Their way lay through the low lands, where the tall bamboos bristled like spears in the battle ranks, but afterward the road was shaded with green-plumed dates and bel-trees, gorgeous with their crimson blossoms. The palace itself was placed in gardens where the blossoms hung in silvery sprays on the mango-trees, and the many colored fountains played like broken rainbows in marble basins. Within those royal courts it was a maze of light and loveliness; music from pipe and lute was borne through the cool casement, and beautiful dancing girls seemed to float through the soft measures. In the whirl of these graceful motions one could see rings and pearls and emeralds shining everywhere, while round the white necks of the dancers hung necklaces of diamonds that glowed like fire in the light of many lamps.

Such was the scene that greeted the eyes of the exiles when, after being provided with food and raiment, they were ushered into the home of their newly-found friend, and the air of rest and luxury was most grateful to the exhausted travelers.

Long they tarried as the guests of their royal host, but the heart of Mūshteri was never at rest; he grieved for his lost friend, and not even the luxuries of a court could in any way atone for his absence. Grateful for the kindness of the king, he was still wasting away in very grief for the companion of his childhood; Bader sought in vain to cheer him, to divert his thoughts with the luxury everywhere around him, but Mūshteri was ever haunted by a conviction that somewhere, at sometime, the happy companionship would be renewed, and he seemed to live only in this great hope.

Persian traders were sometimes found even in the dominions of the king of Derbend, and when the news came to the court that the heir of the Persian throne had deserted his inheritance, Mūshteri determined to either find his friend or lose his life in the attempt.

No offer of the kindly king could tempt him to remain longer in idle luxury, and, still accompanied by the faithful Bader, he set out to cross the great mountain range that seemed to separate him from the rest of the world. Day after day they toiled over the rugged heights, and night after night they slept beside the sheltering rock; at last they had passed the summit, but the descent on the other side was scarcely less difficult and dangerous.

After a time however, they reached the beautiful valley lying at the foot of the range, and then it seemed that their toil was abundantly rewarded, for here were trees laden with fruit, and vines, which were burdened with clusters of gold and purple. Here were mango-trees and orange blossoms, while the river that flowed beside them seemed fragrant with the breath of her newly blown lilies.

Wearied with their long and tiresome journey, they made their simple couch in the shade of a great tree, and lay down to find refreshing slumber.

THE CAPTURE.

When the cool and malicious Behrām left the dominions of the Persian king, not only supplied with money but also in possession of a rich caravan, he cared very little whether or not he ever found the fugitive prince; but he determined to find a safe retreat for himself, where he could enjoy his ill-gotten gains, far from the hope of successful pursuit by the agents of the Shāh. He therefore pursued his way by a safe route and easy stages to a distant province.

His caravan encamped for the night a few miles out of the city of Khārizm; the heavy loads of merchandise were removed from the backs of the camels, and food was taken from the baskets of palm leaves, but finding the water of the river near them was somewhat foul, Behrām sent two slaves nearer to the fountain head of the stream for a supply. They walked slowly toward the foot of the mountain, where the stream gushed in a silvery torrent from the rocks, and soon they were in the beautiful valley of fruits and flowers, where Mūshteri and his faithful attendant had found repose. They gazed for a few moments upon the lovely scene, and quickly decided that if their master would consent to remove the camp, this would be a more desirable locality, as there was not only an abundance of pure water but also a bountiful supply of fruits. As they were turning however to go back, after having filled their leathern gurglets with water, one of them saw two men under a tree apparently asleep; fearing that they might be in the vicinity of a powerful foe, they approached cautiously to learn at least the nationality of their new neighbors. The wearied sleepers remained unconscious of their careful approach and after a time they came nearer; they had already discovered the men were Persians, and a closer scrutiny convinced them that the faces which they looked upon were none other than those of Mūshteri and Bader.

Hastening back to their master with this information, their message was received with incredulity, but nevertheless, Behrām made haste to go into the valley with eight of his strongest slaves, while the others remained with the camels and merchandise. When he saw that Mūshteri and Bader were really lying before him, his malignant eyes flashed with triumphant malice, and quickly giving a whispered order, the young exiles were partially bound, even before they wakened.

Being aroused by the handling of their captors, they found themselves utterly helpless in the power of their most dreaded foe, but even in this condition they scorned to ask for mercy which they knew would be denied them. Behrām ordered a slave to go back to the old encampment with the message that the camels and goods should be brought to the newly chosen ground, and when the campfires were lighted, the camels fed, and the wants of both master and slaves provided for, the beautiful valley witnessed a cruel scene.