The young man then, fearing the day would dawn whilst she was looking at the wonders of the cavern, again placed the bandage over her eyes, and conducted her to a saloon where they conversed together until sunrise. Balkis then took leave, repeatedly assuring the son of Abdelaziz that she would never forget his generous conduct.
She hastened to her father's and informed him of all that had passed. The vizir had been impatiently awaiting his daughter's return. Fearing she might not be sufficiently able to charm Aboulcassem, he remained in a state of inconceivable agitation. But when he saw her enter with the necklace and precious stones that Aboulcassem had given her, he was transported with joy.
"Well, my daughter," he said, "have you seen the treasure?"
"Yes, my lord," answered Balkis, "and to give you a just idea of its magnitude, I tell you that if all the kings of the world were to unite their riches, they could not be compared to those of Aboulcassem. But still, however vast this young man's treasures, I am less charmed with them than with his politeness and generosity." And she then related to her father the whole of her adventure.
In the mean time Haroun-al-Raschid was advancing towards Bagdad. As soon as he arrived at his palace he set his chief vizir at liberty, and restored him to his confidence. He then proceeded to relate to him the events of his journey, and ended by asking, "Giafar, what shall I do? You know the gratitude of monarchs ought to surpass the pleasures they have received. If I should send the magnificent Aboulcassem the choicest and most precious treasure I possess, it will be but a slight gift, far inferior to the presents he has made me. How then can I surpass him in generosity?"
"My lord," replied the vizir, "since your majesty condescends to consult me, I should write this day to the king of Basra and order him to commit the government of the state to the young Aboulcassem. We can soon despatch the courier, and in a few days I will depart myself to Basra and present the patents to the new king."
The caliph approved of this advice. "You are right," he said to his minister, "it will be the only means of acquitting myself towards Aboulcassem, and of taking vengeance on the king of Basra and his unworthy vizir, who have concealed from me the considerable sums they have extorted from this young man. It is but just to punish them for their violence against him; they are unworthy of the situations they occupy."
He immediately wrote to the king of Basra and despatched the courier. He then went to the apartment of the princess Zobeide to inform her of the success of his journey, and presented her with the little page, the tree, and the peacock. He also gave her a beautiful female slave. Zobeide found this slave so charming that she smilingly told the caliph she accepted this gift with more pleasure than all his other presents. The prince kept only the cup for himself; the vizir Giafar had all the rest; and this good minister, as he had before resolved, made preparations for his departure from Bagdad.
The courier of the caliph no sooner arrived in the town of Basra than he hastened to present his despatch to the king, who was greatly concerned on reading it. The prince showed it to his vizir. "Aboulfatah," said he, "see the fatal order that I have received from the commander of the faithful. Can I refuse to obey it?"
"Yes, my lord," answered the minister; "do not afflict yourself. Aboulcassem must be removed from hence. Without taking his life I will make every one believe he is dead. I can keep him so well concealed that he shall never be seen again; and by this means you will always remain on the throne and possess the riches of this young man; for when we are masters of his person we can increase his sufferings until he is obliged to reveal where his treasure is concealed."
"Do what you like," replied the king; "but what answer shall we send the caliph?"
"Leave that to me. The commander of the faithful will be deceived as well as others. Let me execute the design I meditate, and the rest need cause you no uneasiness."
Aboulfatah then, accompanied by some courtiers who were ignorant of his intention, went to pay a visit to Aboulcassem. He received them according to their rank, regaled them magnificently, seated the vizir in the place of honour, and loaded him with presents without having the least suspicion of his perfidy. Whilst they were at table and partaking of the most delicious wines, the treacherous Aboulfatah skilfully threw unperceived into the cup of the son of Abdelaziz a powder which would render him insensible, and cause his body to remain in a state of lethargy resembling that of a corpse long deprived of life. The young man had no sooner taken the cup from his lips than he fainted away. His servants hastened to support him, but soon perceiving he had all the appearance of a dead man, they placed him on a sofa and uttered the most lamentable cries. The guests, struck with sudden terror, were silent from astonishment. As for Aboulfatah, it is impossible to say how well he dissimulated. He not only feigned the most immoderate grief, but tore his clothes and excited the rest of the company to follow his example. He ordered a coffin to be made of ivory and ebony, and while they were preparing it, he collected all the effects of Aboulcassem and placed them in the king's palace. The account of the young man's death soon spread abroad. All persons, men and women, put on mourning, and came to the door of the house, their heads and feet bare; old and young men, women and girls, were bathed in tears, filling the air with their cries and lamentations. Some said they had lost in him an only son, others a brother or a husband tenderly beloved. Rich and poor were equally afflicted at his death; the rich mourned a friend who had always welcomed them, and the poor a benefactor whose charity had never been equalled. His death caused a general consternation.
Meanwhile the unhappy Aboulcassem was enclosed in the coffin, and a procession having been formed, the people, by order of Aboulfatah, carried him out of the town to a large cemetery containing a number of tombs, and amongst others a magnificent one where reposed the vizir's father and many others of his family. They placed the coffin in this tomb, and the perfidious Aboulfatah, leaning his head on his knees, beat his breast, and gave way apparently to the most violent grief. Those present pitied and prayed heaven to console him. As night approached the people returned to the town, but the vizir remained with two of his slaves in the tomb, the door of which he shut and double locked. They lit a fire, warmed some water in a silver basin, and taking Aboulcassem from the coffin, bathed him with the warm water. The young man by degrees regained his senses. He cast his eyes on Aboulfatah, whom he at once recognized. "Ah, my lord," said he, "where are we, and to what state am I reduced?"
"Wretch!" answered the minister, "know that it is I who have caused your misfortune. I brought you here to have you in my power, and to make you suffer a thousand torments if you will not discover to me your treasure. I will rack your body with tortures—will invent each day new sufferings to render life insupportable: in a word, I will never cease to persecute you until you deliver me those hidden treasures which enable you to live with even more magnificence than kings."
"You can do what you please," replied Aboulcassem; "I will never reveal my treasure."
He had scarcely uttered these words, when the cruel Aboulfatah, making his slaves seize the unfortunate son of Abdelaziz, drew from his robe a whip made of twisted lion's skin, with which he struck so long and with such violence that the young man fainted. When the vizir saw him in this state, he commanded the slaves to replace him in the coffin, and leaving him in the tomb, which he firmly secured, returned to his palace.
On the morrow he went to inform the king of what he had done. "Sire," said he, "I tried yesterday, but in vain, to overcome the firmness of Aboulcassem; however, I have now prepared torments for him which I think he cannot resist."
The prince, who was quite as barbarous as his minister, said, "Vizir, I am perfectly satisfied with all you have done. Ere long, I hope, we shall know where this treasure is concealed. But we must send back the courier without delay. What shall I write to the caliph?"
"Tell him, my lord, that Aboulcassem, hearing he was to occupy your place, was so enchanted, and made such great rejoicings, that he died suddenly at a feast."
The king approved of this advice, and writing immediately to Haroun-al-Raschid, despatched the courier. The vizir, flattering himself that he should at length be able to force Aboulcassem to reveal his treasure, left the town, resolving to extract the secret or leave him to perish. But on arriving at the tomb, he was surprised to find the door open. He entered trembling, and not seeing the son of Abdelaziz in the coffin, he nearly lost his senses. Returning instantly to the palace, he related to the king what had occurred. The monarch, seized with a mortal terror, exclaimed, "Oh, Waschi! what will become of us? Since this young man has escaped, we are lost. He will not fail to hasten to Bagdad, and acquaint the caliph with all that has taken place."
Aboulfatah, on his part, in despair that the victim of his avarice was no longer in his power, said to the king his master, "What would I now give to have taken his life yesterday! He would not then have caused us such uneasiness. But we will not quite despair yet; if he has taken flight, as no doubt he has, he cannot be very far from here. Let me take some soldiers of your guard, and search in all the environs of the town; I hope still to find him."
The king instantly consented to so important a step. He assembled all his soldiers, and dividing them into two bodies, gave the command of one to his vizir, and placing himself at the head of the other, prepared with his troops to search in all parts of his kingdom.
Whilst they were seeking Aboulcassem in the villages, woods, and mountains, the vizir Giafar, who was already on the road to Basra, met the courier returning, who said to him, "My lord, it is useless for you to proceed further, if Aboulcassem is the sole cause of your journey, for this young man is dead; his funeral took place some days past; my eyes were witnesses of the mournful ceremony."
Giafar, who had looked forward with pleasure to see the new king, and present his patents, was much afflicted at his death. He shed tears on hearing the sad news, and, thinking it was useless to continue his journey, retraced his steps. As soon as he arrived at Bagdad, he went with the courier to the palace. The sadness of his countenance informed the king he had some misfortune to announce.
"Ah, Giafar!" exclaimed the prince, "you have soon returned. What are you come to tell me?'
"Commander of the faithful," answered the vizir, "you do not, I am sure, expect to hear the bad news I am going to tell. Aboulcassem is no more; since your departure from Basra the young man has lost his life."
Haroun-al-Raschid had no sooner heard these words than he threw himself from his throne. He remained some moments extended on the ground without giving any signs of life. At length his eyes sought the courier, who had returned from Basra, and he asked for the despatch. The prince read it with much attention. He shut himself in his cabinet with Giafar, and showed him the letter from the king of Basra. After re-reading it many times, the caliph said,
"This does not appear to me natural; I begin to suspect that the king of Basra and his vizir, instead of executing my orders, have put Aboulcassem to death."
"My lord," said Giafar, "the same suspicion occurred to me, and I advise that they should both be secured."
"That is what I determine from this moment," said Haroun; "take ten thousand horsemen of my guard, march to Basra, seize the two guilty wretches, and bring them here. I will revenge the death of this most generous of men."
"We will now return to the son of Abdelaziz, and relate why the vizir Aboulfatah did not find him in the tomb. The young man, after long remaining insensible, was beginning to recover, when he felt himself laid hold of by powerful arms, taken from the coffin, and gently laid on the earth. He thought it was the vizir and his slaves come again on their cruel errand.
"Executioners!" he cried, "put me to death at once; if you have any pity spare me these useless torments, for again I declare that nothing you can do will ever tempt me to reveal my secret."
"Fear not, young man," answered one of the persons who had lifted him from the coffin; "instead of ill-treating you, we are come to your assistance."
At these words Aboulcassem opened his eyes, and, looking at his liberators, recognized the young lady to whom he had shown his treasure.
"Ah, madam!" he said, "is it to you I owe my life?"
"Yes, my lord," answered Balkis; "to myself and prince Aly, my betrothed, whom you see with me. Informed of your noble behaviour, he wished to share with me the pleasure of delivering you from death."
"It is quite true," said prince Aly; "I would expose my life a thousand times, rather than leave so generous a man to perish."
The son of Abdelaziz, having entirely recovered his senses by the help of some cordials they had given him, expressed to the lady and the prince his grateful thanks for the service they had rendered him, and asked how they had been informed he still lived.
"My lord," said Balkis, "I am the daughter of the vizir Aboulfatah. I was not deceived by the false report of your death. I suspected my father in this affair, and, bribing one of his slaves, was informed of all concerning you. This slave is one of the two who were with him in the tomb, and as he had charge of the key he confided it to me for a few hours. I no sooner made this affair known to prince Aly than he hastened to join me with some of his confidential domestics. We lost not a moment in coming hither, and, thanks be to heaven, we did not arrive too late."
"Oh, Mahomet!" said Aboulcassem, "is it possible so unworthy and cruel a father possesses such a daughter?"
"Let us depart, my lord," said prince Aly; "the time is precious. I doubt not but that to-morrow the vizir, finding you have escaped, will seek you in all directions. I am going to conduct you to my house, where you will be in perfect safety, for no one will suspect me of giving you an asylum."
They then covered Aboulcassem with a slave's robe, and all left the tomb. Balkis proceeded to her father's, and returned the key to the slave, whilst prince Aly took the son of Abdelaziz to his own palace, and kept him so well concealed, that it was impossible his enemies could discover him. Aboulcassem remained some time in prince Aly's house, who treated him most kindly, until the king and his vizir, despairing of finding him, gave up their search. The prince then gave him a very beautiful horse, loaded him with sequins and precious stones, and said to him:
"You can now safely depart; the roads are open, and your enemies know not what is become of you. Hasten to seek a place where you will be secure from harm."
The young man thanked this generous prince for his hospitality, and assured him he should ever gratefully remember it. Prince Aly embraced him, and prayed heaven to protect and watch over him on his journey. Aboulcassem then took the road to Bagdad, and arrived there in safety a few days afterwards. The first thing he did on entering the city was to hasten to the place where the merchants usually assembled. The hope of seeing there some one he had known at Basra, and of relating his misfortunes, was his only consolation. He was vexed at being unable to find this place, and traversing the town, sought in vain for the face of a friend amongst the multitudes he met. Feeling fatigued, he stopped before the caliph's palace to rest a little: the page whom he had given to his former guest was then at a window, and the child looking by chance that way, instantly recognized him. He ran to the caliph's apartment.
"My lord," he exclaimed, "I have just seen my old master from Basra!"
Haroun put no faith in this report. "You are mistaken," he said; "Aboulcassem no longer lives. Deceived by some fancied resemblance, you have taken another for him."
"No, no, commander of the faithful; I assure you it is he: I am certain I am not mistaken."
Though the caliph did not believe this assertion, still he wished to fathom the mystery, and sent one of his officers with the page to see the man the boy declared was the son of Abdelaziz. They found him in the same place, for, imagining he had recognized his little page, he waited till the child reappeared at the window. When the boy was convinced he was not deceived, he threw himself at the feet of Aboulcassem, who raised him, and asked if he had the honour of belonging to the caliph.
"Yes, my lord," said the child; "it was to the commander of the faithful himself—he it was whom you entertained at Basra—it was to him that you gave me. Come with me, my lord; the caliph will be delighted to see you."
The surprise of the young man at this speech was extreme. He allowed himself to be conducted into the palace by the page and the officer, and was soon ushered into the apartment of Haroun. The prince was seated on a sofa. He was extremely affected at the sight of Aboulcassem. He hastened towards the young man, and held him long embraced without uttering a word, so much was he transported with joy. When he recovered a little from his emotion he said to the son of Abdelaziz:
"Young man, open your eyes, and recognize your happy guest. It was I whom you received so hospitably, and to whom you gave presents that kings could not equal."
At these words Aboulcassem, who was not less moved than the caliph, and who from respect had drawn his cloak over his head, and had not yet dared to look up, now uncovered his face, and said:
"Oh, my sovereign master! oh, king of the world, was it you who honoured your slave's house?" And he threw himself at the feet of Haroun, and kissed the floor before him.
"How is it," said the prince, raising him, and placing him on a sofa, "that you are still alive? Tell me all that has happened to you."
Aboulcassem then related the cruelties of Aboulfatah, and how he had been preserved from the fury of that vizir. Haroun listened attentively, and then said:
"Aboulcassem, I am the cause of your misfortunes. On my return to Bagdad, wishing to repay my debt to you, I sent a courier to the king of Basra, desiring him to resign his crown to you. Instead of executing my orders, he resolved to take your life. Aboulfatah, by putting you to the most frightful tortures, hoped to induce you to reveal your treasures; that was the sole reason he delayed your death. But you would have been revenged. Giafar, with a large body of my troops, is gone to Basra. I have given him orders to seize your two persecutors, and to bring them here. In the mean time you shall remain in my palace, and be attended by my officers with as much respect as myself."
After this speech he took the young man by the hand, and made him descend to a garden, filled with the choicest flowers. There he saw basins of marble, porphyry, and jasper, which served for reservoirs to multitudes of beautiful fish. In the midst of the garden, supported upon twelve lofty pillars of black marble, was a dome, the roof of sandal wood and aloes. The spaces between the columns were closed by a double trellis-work of gold, which formed an aviary containing thousands of canaries of different colours, nightingales, linnets, and other harmonious birds, who mingling their notes formed the most charming concert. The baths of Haroun-al-Raschid were under this dome. The prince and his guest took a bath, after which the attendants rubbed them with the finest towels, which had never before been used. They then clothed Aboulcassem in rich apparel. The caliph conducted him to a chamber where refreshments awaited them, such as roasted fowls and lamb, white soups, pomegranates from Amlas and Ziri, pears from Exhali, grapes from Melah and Sevise, and apples from Ispahan. After they had partaken of these delicacies, and drunk some delicious wine, the caliph conducted Aboulcassem to Zobeide's apartment. This princess was seated on a throne of gold, surrounded by her slaves, who were ranged standing on each side of her; some had tambourines, others flutes and harps. At that moment their instruments were mute, all being attentively engaged in listening to a young girl whose charming voice rang through the saloon like the warblings of a nightingale. As soon as Zobeide perceived the caliph and the son of Abdelaziz, she descended from her throne to receive them.
"Madam," said Haroun, "allow me to present to you my host of Basra."
The young man prostrated himself before the princess. At this moment the vizir Giafar was heard returning with the troops, and bringing with him Aboulfatah securely bound. As for the king of Basra, he was left behind dying of grief and fright at not finding Aboulcassem. Giafar had no sooner rendered an account of his mission, than the caliph ordered a scaffold to be erected before the palace, to which the wicked Aboulfatah was conducted. The people knowing the cruelty of this vizir, instead of being touched with his misfortune, testified the utmost impatience to witness his execution. The executioner was already prepared, sabre in hand, to strike off the guilty man's head, when the son of Abdelaziz prostrating himself before the caliph, exclaimed, "Oh, commander of the faithful, yield to my prayers the life of Aboulfatah! Let him live to witness my happiness, to behold all the favours you are conferring upon me, and he will be sufficiently punished."
"Oh, too generous Aboulcassem," replied the caliph, "you, indeed, deserve a crown! Happy the people of Basra to have you for their king."
"My lord, I have one more favour to ask. Give to the prince Aly the throne you destined for myself. Let him reign, together with the lady who had the generosity to avert from me the fury of her father; these two lovers are worthy this honour. As to myself, cherished and protected by the commander of the faithful, I have no need of a crown; I shall be superior to kings."
The caliph assented to this proposal, and to recompense prince Aly for the service he had rendered the son of Abdelaziz, sent him the patents, and made him king of Basra; but finding Aboulfatah too guilty to accord him liberty as well as life, he ordered the vizir to be shut up in a dark tower for the remainder of his days. When the people of Bagdad were informed that it was Aboulcassem himself who had begged the life of his persecutor, they showered a thousand praises on the generous young man, who soon after departed for Basra, escorted by a troop of the caliph's guards, and a great number of his officers.
Eggadi-ben-Yousouf, a merchant at Miliana, was a mere lover of gain; he never gave away any thing in alms; his heart was dry as the earth in the hottest days of summer, and never open to pity for the unfortunate. To amass, to amass for ever was the sole desire of Eggadi. But in what did his riches consist? None could say, for he concealed them with the utmost care.
One day one of his camels having died, he bought to replace it the only camel of Ali-Bénala, a poor dealer in mats. This camel was the sole heritage of which Ali came into possession at the death of his father. He sold it for much less than its value;—Eggadi, who was an adept at bargaining, depreciating it in every possible way, especially on account of its extreme age.
On his next journey Eggadi added this camel to his little caravan. As he was passing a solitary place, he was surprised to see the camel betake itself with hasty steps to a spot at some distance behind some rocks, and on its arrival there kneel down and groan, as camels usually do when they expect to be unloaded. A negro, having run after the animal, brought it back to its place in the caravan.
Eggadi soon took a second journey on the same road, and on this occasion too the camel sold him by Ali-Bénala again quitted the rank, and was again observed to kneel down and groan at the same place. This time Eggadi followed it, and saw with surprise that the spot at which it stopped was one where no merchant of any country had been ever known to unload his merchandise. He reflected deeply on this circumstance, and in the end resolved to revisit the spot alone with the camel, who, faithful perhaps to some recollection, might, he thought, be the means of disclosing to him some mysterious act, or perhaps the place where a treasure lay concealed.
Eggadi returned, in short, soon after, to this solitary spot. He had brought with him a spade, and proceeded to dig with care around the camel, who had invariably knelt in the same place. He had scarcely laboured ten minutes ere he discovered traces of another spade; this redoubled his zeal, and soon after, to his intense satisfaction, he came upon some bags of money, then a coffer firmly shut, but which contained, he could not doubt, objects of costly value. He first took the bags, which were filled with good and true Spanish doubloons; with these he loaded his camel, who thus had gained nothing but a double burden for his pains; then, having re-covered with stones and sand the precious coffer, which he resolved upon examining another time, he returned with his mind greatly preoccupied, asking himself whether it must not have been the old father of Ali-Bénala to whom all the wealth he had just discovered formerly belonged.
This question, which he could not help addressing to his conscience over and over again, prevented him from fully enjoying the possession of his treasure. Although he dearly loved money, yet Eggadi to obtain possession of it had never yet plundered the widow and the orphan. The first step in the road to evil is not accomplished without difficulty and without remorse; Eggadi painfully experienced the truth of this. "And yet," said he to himself, "I made a fair bargain with poor Ali for this very camel which has been the means of my finding a treasure."
Before going to take possession of the coffer left underground behind the rocks, Eggadi, impelled by his conscience, approached the miserable shop where Ali carried on the sale of his mats, and said to him:
"How comes it, Ali, that your father, rich as it is said he was, left you no fortune, only an old camel and a house in ruins?"
"Ah!" replied Ali, "my father was good to the poor. Not only did he call every poor man his brother, but assisted him to the utmost of his power. At times, however, I have suspected that my father may have had riches concealed in some spot, and that he intended to bestow them upon me before he died. And I will tell you what led me to suppose so.
"A few moments before his death he sent for me, and said: 'I have a great secret to confide to thee. Come close to me that my voice may reach thy ear alone: but before our conversation, my son, let us pray to Allah to grant us on this solemn day that which is best for us.'
"We prayed, and in ten minutes my father was no more. Allah, no doubt, judged that that which was best for me was poverty. Allah be praised."
Ali bowed his head profoundly, laying his hand upon his breast. Eggadi, much disturbed at the virtuous resignation of Ali-Bénala, rejoined:
"But thinkest thou, that if good fortune befel thee, thou wouldst know how to make good use of it?"
"Allah alone knows," said Ali. "Should he ever see fit to make me rich, he will know how to fit me for the change. For myself, I cannot succeed in improving the poverty of my estate. I work incessantly, but nothing succeeds with me. My oxen, if I have any, drown themselves in crossing a torrent; my goods either do not sell or are damaged. I am destined to possess upon this earth nothing but this miserable hut, which has been my only home for ten years, But what matters it, provided I fulfil the law of the prophet? I shall see Abraham, in heaven. If at times my poverty renders me uneasy, it is only for the sake of my poor children, who live miserably in a house as open to the wind and the rain as though it were without a roof."
"Well," said Eggadi, "it is certainly not just that such an honest man as thou should be in such a wretched state of poverty."
"How! not just!" replied Ali. "Are there not, then, many honest men who are no richer than myself?"
"That may be," said Eggadi. "Nevertheless, since thy father was rich, it seems to be but just that thou shouldst be so too, and I come to propose to thee to enter into partnership with me. I have two good houses outside the town; one shall be for thy family, the other for mine. We will live as brothers, and unite our children as in the time of the patriarchs."
Ali remained greatly astonished at such a proposition, coming especially from Eggadi-ben-Yousouf, who had never had any friendship for him, and who so far from evincing any generosity towards him, had bargained with him for his poor camel like the veriest Jew in the world.
He therefore remained silent, neither accepting nor refusing the offer, but looking with an abstracted air upon the mats in his miserable dwelling.
"Well," said Eggadi, ashamed at the bottom of his heart at making this show of generosity to one whom he was secretly despoiling, "well, thou dost not reply to me?"
"Grant me time to imitate the example of my father by invoking Allah before taking a resolution," said Ali. "Allah alone can know whether it will be best for me to keep at once my poverty and the freedom of all my actions, or to accept opulence and with it the necessity of being always of thy opinion; for bringing into our partnership nothing but my two stout arms, I should be an ingrate if I did not yield in every thing to thy wishes."
Eggadi involuntarily cast down his eyes before this poor man who spoke with so much wisdom.
"Well," said he again, "reflect till to-morrow, and come to me in the morning under the palm trees in front of my house; I will there await thee."
Then these two men separated. Ali, praying in the mosque, thought he heard his father pronounce these words. "Never associate thyself save with him who has no more than thyself, and who already knows the right way. The good are spoilt by associating with the rogue and the miser, whilst neither rogue nor miser is reformed by association with one better than himself."
The next morning Ali repaired to the palm trees which grew before the house of Eggadi, where the latter awaited him uneasy and fatigued after a sleepless night. After the usual Mussulman salutation, Ali-Bénala said to the rich Eggadi:
"How comes it that thou appearest sad, thou who possessest fine houses, coffers of gold, and merchandise, whilst I, I who have nothing, rise with a joyous heart, and smoke my pipe all day with pleasure, seated on the threshold of my poor shop?"
"The weight of business overwhelms me," replied Eggadi; "I have great need of some one to share it."
"Then why not diminish thy transactions, and live in peace?" inquired Ali.
"No, no, it is impossible to set limits to one's purchases and sales. A fortunate speculation balances an unlucky one. You must accept all if you would grow rich. But come, hast thou decided? Wilt thou enter into partnership with me?"
"I have reflected and prayed," said Ali. "I am very grateful for thy offers, and Allah will doubtless recompense thee; but prudence forbids me to accept them. I will never enter into partnership but with one who is as poor as myself."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Eggadi-ben-Yousouf, "be no longer then surprised at thy poverty, since thou refusest the opportunity of enriching thyself. The traveller who does not stop beneath the first trees he meets runs the risk of not finding another upon his road, and of performing the whole journey without enjoying their refreshing shade. Such a man would have no right to complain of the dust of the roads, or the heat of the sun."
"I do not complain," replied Ali, "I come, on the contrary, to tell thee that I live and sleep in peace."
"It is well, it is well," said Eggadi, who had not closed his eyes till the morning, "it is well, remain as thou art. Instead of gold pieces, be content to receive rain-drops through thy roof, eat bread when thou hast any, and go fasting oftener; it concerns me no more."
"I should be a fool," added he internally, "to trouble myself any longer about the poverty of this man." And he remembered his fine house, where gilded cakes, a delicious repast, and rich and rare fruits awaited him.
He ate his meal in company with his sons; then he washed his beard and hands, rose from the table, and called his wife, his daughters, his mother, and his grandmother, and said to them, "Women, eat in your turn; this is for you."
The women respectfully kissed his hands, and proceeded to make their meal, whilst he went and sat down out of doors, and smoked with his sons, to whom he spoke as follows whilst a negro waited upon him with coffee:
"I am about to take another journey. During my absence see to such and such things, and do not forget any of my orders, if you would not run the risk of becoming poor, poor—" he was going to say, "as Ali, the seller of mats," but this name excited too keenly his remorse; he could not venture to pronounce it.
So that in spite of the good repast of which he had just partaken, Eggadi felt ill at ease, for the thought was ever recurring to him, "Ali is poor, his father was rich, and it is I who have unjustly taken possession of his father's wealth." Meanwhile Eggadi had this very moderate relief, he might still enjoy the benefit of a doubt as to whether the father of Ali was really the possessor of the discovered treasures. However, the coffer left behind the rocks would doubtless throw a light upon this matter. Eggadi proceeded at once in search of this coffer; he opened it, and his eyes, dazzled though they were by the precious objects that met their gaze, were constrained to perceive at the same time a sheet of parchment, upon which the following words were very distinctly inscribed:
"All the treasures buried in this spot have been lawfully acquired, or received in heritage by me, Mustapha Selim. I bequeath them to my only son, Ali-Bénala, who has ever been a faithful servant of Allah, and respectful towards me. May he, and his children, and his children's children inherit and enjoy these possessions, to which I add my benediction."
As soon as Eggadi had read these words a profound sadness took possession of him, for he could no longer doubt that these hidden riches were the inheritance of Ali-Bénala. If therefore he appropriated them, he was a despoiler of the poor and the orphan. It would have been so delightful to have been able to keep up the illusion, and to say to himself: "This wealth was without an owner; Allah has been pleased to bestow it on me!" But if Eggadi had never as yet committed any very culpable actions, he had never done any good ones, and did not merit the protection of heaven. He dared not doubt that by keeping unlawful possession of the property of Ali he should incur the wrath of heaven; at the same time he could not bring himself to renounce it. He took the coffer, carried it home, meditating by turns on the uses to which he might turn his great fortune, and on what might be done by way of compromising his conscience for poor Ali, his children, and his children's children.
Arrived at his own house, he placed his treasures in a large chest, which he kept thenceforth in the chamber where he passed his nights. By day, too, this coffer often served him for a seat; whilst scarce a day passed without his opening it, to assure himself that nothing had disappeared. He kept it carefully fastened with the aid of several locks and a master key, of which he never gave up the possession.
Eggadi contemplated a thousand times these treasures acquired with so little trouble; if we can call that gained with little trouble which is purchased at the price of our peace of mind. And each time after having contemplated them, he would repeat to himself the words of Ali, "Allah will no doubt recompense thee." "Ah! if he recompenses me as I deserve," he could not help reflecting, "he will send me great disasters indeed."
Pursued by the dread of a heavy chastisement, Eggadi became so miserable in the midst of his fine family and his treasures, that he formed the project of quitting his country, where the sight of Ali, his humble house and miserable shop, haunted him incessantly. So he adjusted his affairs, collected his merchandise, and then communicated his intention to his children and his servants.
But whilst, spurred on by a secret terror, he was hastening the preparations for his departure, Allah, on whose will depend all things on earth and in heaven, visited him with a severe fever, accompanied with delirium, during which he spoke incessantly of the old camel of Ali, of concealed treasures, and the vengeance of Heaven.
Salmanazar, an old Jew doctor, had charge of Eggadi; he heard the incoherent ravings of his patient, and immediately divined them to be the result of preceding mental anguish. Thanks to the skill acquired by medical science, and still more to the intuition engendered by the desire of self-enrichment, the old Jew was not slow in comprehending that there was a secret relating to a treasure unjustly acquired, and he saw no reason, moreover, why he should not be a partaker in the booty.
He found means therefore to remove all the attendants, and constituting himself sole guardian of the sick man, seated himself by his bedside and patiently awaited the auspicious moment which should deliver into his merciless keeping a soul harassed by the stings of remorse.
This moment at length arrived; Eggadi ceased to be delirious, and as though awakening from a painful dream, drew a long breath, and cast looks of inquiry around him.
Salmanazar, who had been watching for this opportunity, then exclaimed: "Eggadi! Eggadi! you Mussulmans cry, 'God is great,' but you do not believe it, for if you did, how could you dare enrich yourselves at the expense of the poor man and his children? Thou art rich, Eggadi, and Ali is poor."
"What sayst thou?" cried the sick man, distending his eyes with terror as dismal recollections thronged upon him.
"I say that thou hast a treasure which should not belong to thee, and that this is why thou hast the fever, and why moreover thou wilt die, unless I save thy life by my profound science. Restitution must be made; nay, if indeed thou wert to do good with this treasure to poor Jews like me, God would perhaps pardon thee, but thou takest care to give us nothing. If I cure thee what will be my profit? a few miserable doubloons, which I shall have all the same if thou diest; for thy sons will give them me, and if they refused to pay me, I should summon them before the cadi. Thus, whether thou livest or whether thou diest is much the same to me. Nevertheless, if I had a mind I could easily cure thee, and cause thee still to live, that thy days might be long upon the earth. But what profit would this be to me?"
"Cure me, cure me," cried the sick man, "and I will give thee far more than my sons would give thee, far more than the cadi would grant thee did my children refuse thee payment. I will give thee twenty doubloons; nay, fifty. That would be a fine thing for thee."
"It would be a much better thing for thyself," chuckled Salmanazar. "Of what use will thy doubloons be to thee when thou art dead? I demand five hundred doubloons for curing thee, and I will have them at once, for in an hour's time I shall demand a thousand, and if you then delay deciding there will be no longer any time to choose."
"A thousand doubloons!" exclaimed the patient; "I will not even give thee five hundred. If I did,—Allah would not pardon me the more, even supposing I really am guilty of what thou suggested."
"Well, then, thou wilt die," rejoined Salmanazar, settling himself again in his chair.
The chamber of the sick man was gloomy. A small lamp cast a fitful light upon one corner, while the rest seemed inhabited by nothing but dim shadows. An odour of fever and its remedies pervaded the atmosphere; out of doors,—for it was night,—the dismal cry of the jackals seeking food resounded, whilst the deep baying of the neighbouring dogs was heard without intermission. The weather was windy and tempestuous. All this but served to increase the deep depression which filled the soul of Eggadi. He threw a wistful look around his shadow-haunted room; it fell upon the old Jew who was watching him askance, his large dark eyes dimmed by ophthalmia, and he asked himself whether the old man with his prominent nose, yellow visage, long, lean and withered arms, habited in a scanty and dirty garment, were not some evil genius come thither to curse him for his crime, and drag him to the bottomless pit of perdition.
Nevertheless, Eggadi contrived to raise himself up in a sitting posture on his bed. He collected all his strength, drew a long breath, sighed feebly, and said:
"Well, I have decided, Salmanazar; give me the remedy which will make my days long upon the earth."
"Give me first the five hundred doubloons," said Salmanazar.
"I have them not here," replied the sick man.
"Tell me where they are, I will go and get them."
"That is impossible," said Eggadi; "but summon Bankala, my black slave, he will bring me the key of my coffer, and the coffer itself which contains my treasures."
"Well and good," replied Salmanazar; and he summoned Bankala.
Eggadi gave some orders to the slave in a language unknown to Salmanazar, and he disappeared. He returned shortly with two other slaves, whom he placed like two sentinels by the side of his master's bed.
"Send away those men," said Salmanazar to the sick man. The latter replied, "They are needed to go and bring the coffer as soon as Bankala shall have given us the key; he and I alone know where it is hidden."
"It is well," said the Jew; and he held his peace, looking alternately at the sick man and the two slaves.
"What wilt thou do to effect my cure?" began Eggadi to inquire of the Jew in a doleful tone.
"Thou shalt see—thou shalt see," replied the latter. And they both awaited the return of the slave with an equal anxiety, which they in vain strove to conceal.
Bankala made them wait a long time, but when at length he did return, Ali, the poor seller of mats, followed upon his footsteps. "Arise quickly," had been the summons of the slave to him; "Eggadi my master summons thee in the name of Allah, and desires to see thee before he dies." Ali had hastened to obey. At sight of him the Jew trembled. Eggadi, on the contrary, felt himself happy and reassured.
"Come hither, Ali," said he; "come and behold a man guilty but repentant. The example of thy virtues did not suffice to bring me back to the path of duty: it was necessary that I should be struck by misfortune. Thanks to Heaven misfortune has befallen me. Ali! Ali! it was I who bought of thee the old camel which was left thee by thy father. That camel no doubt aided him in concealing the great wealth he would fain have bestowed upon thee ere he died. I discovered this wealth, and I conceived the iniquitous design of keeping it, instead of restoring it to thee in accordance with the demands of justice. I was on the point of quitting my country to avoid the further sight of thy poverty, the unceasing reproach to my crime, when Allah visited me with a terrible malady, and a still more terrible physician. This physician, whom thou there beholdest, having discovered my secret, instead of urging me to the restitution of my ill-acquired fortune, dreamt only of sharing it with me, and threatened me with death if I refused the division of the plunder.
"His horrible conduct, his avarice and cruelty combined, have inspired me with horror, and have shown me to what lengths an inordinate love of gold may lead. I have mourned for my fault, and have taken a sudden resolution to repair it. By deceiving this skilful man, I have been enabled to send for thee, and before him I declare that I render thee up joyfully all the treasures which are enclosed in the chest upon which Salmanazar is seated."
Salmanazar started up on hearing these words. How! he had been actually sitting upon the treasure and had not divined it.
Eggadi continued:
"Consider, Ali, what will be most suitable to bestow upon this Jew. He demanded of me five hundred doubloons down, or a thousand in an hour's time, if I desired to live. I think that five hundred blows with a stick should be his recompense; at the same time I am unworthy to judge any man in this world. Thou who art just, act towards him as thou thinkest best, but deign, above all things, to grant me thy forgiveness."
Ali was of course greatly surprised at all he had just heard. He took a moment to collect his thoughts and then said:
"Eggadi-ben-Yousouf, I pardon thee willingly; and to prove it, I say to thee as thou once saidst to me:
"Let us enter into partnership, let us live as brothers, and unite our children as in the time of the patriarchs. As for Salmanazar, let his only punishment be to behold the riches he would have forced thee to share with him, and after having seen them, let him return home without money and without blows."
The wish of the wise Ali was put into execution. The coffer, the key of which Eggadi had about him, was opened; and the Jew, though still trembling with the fear of receiving the blows, could not help eagerly regarding the gold and precious stones which were revealed to his cupidity. Then he departed, filled with grief at having missed his aim, and at not having been himself the fortunate purchaser of the old camel of Ali. This event was engraven on his memory, and caused him to regard with looks of eager anxiety all the old camels whom he chanced to meet. He often stopped before them, and seemed to endeavour to trace in their movements some mysterious sign which might lead to the discovery of hidden treasures.
Eggadi, having his conscience at ease, regained his health without the aid of any other physician. He became the adopted brother of Ali, who insisted on sharing with him his newly-acquired fortune; and these two men, their children, and their children's children, continued to live together wealthy and united.
Many hundred years ago there lived in the famous city of Bagdad a retired merchant named El Kattab. The earlier part of his life had been assiduously devoted to commercial pursuits, in the prosecution of which he had made many a long journey, and crossed many a sea. In the course of his wanderings he had not only amassed the wealth he sought, but, what was better, had stored his mind and memory with the treasures of wisdom and general information. The property he had acquired was far from immense, yet it was amply sufficient to enable him to live in a style of substantial comfort and respectability, and to devote himself to the darling object of his declining years, the education and training of his only son.
El Kattab's beard was grey, yet he had not very long passed the prime of life, and still retained most of the vigour and elasticity of his earlier years. He was wise enough to be content with the quiet enjoyments of a moderate affluence, and had no desire to wear out the rest of his life in the feverish labour of constant acquirement, for the mere sake of amassing a splendid fortune; therein differing from too many of his friends, who seemed to forget in their headlong pursuit of enormous riches, that by the time these might be acquired, life would be nigh spent, and at any rate all its charms gone, unless some higher and nobler object had been substituted for that of mere wealth-getting.
The city of Mossul had been El Kattab's home in his earlier days; but he quitted it, and took up his abode in Bagdad, partly in order to be near his friend Salek, with whom he had been on the most intimate terms from his youth; partly, too, for the sake of his son's education, as he expected that a residence in the latter city would produce good and lasting impressions on the mind of the young man; for the great city of Bagdad was at this time under the rule of the far-famed caliph Haroun al Raschid, and was the resort of strangers from all parts of the globe; and here artists and sages of all countries mingled with each other. Nor had El Kattab conceived a vain expectation. His son, whose name was Medjeddin, was a young man gifted with good natural abilities, and endowed with a pure and noble heart. He used every opportunity to extend his knowledge and improve his disposition; nor was he deficient in bodily exercises and warlike accomplishments: so that through good discipline he became powerful in body and strong in mind. He was not only, therefore, as was natural enough, the joy and pride of his father, but was loved and esteemed by all who knew him, and was often pointed out by the elders, to others of his own age, as an example worthy of imitation. As the father saw his greatest treasure in the person of his son, so the latter, with all the fervour of a well-directed mind, clung affectionately to his father.
Some years passed over them in this mutual love, rendered still more delightful by the companionship of their friend Salek, and their happiness was full and uninterrupted. It chanced one day that El Kattab and Salek were taking their accustomed walk in the gardens adjoining the city in front of the gate. The heat of the summer's day had been diminished by a gentle rain, and the two strolled on, in happy conversation, and extended their walk beyond its usual length. They passed the last garden, and wandered on over some green meadow-land, behind a little wood, at the entrance of which stood high palms, whose shadows invited to repose, while a fresh spring gushed from a neighbouring rock, and meandered among the verdant herbage and variegated flowers.
The two friends lay down in the shade, and conversed on the perils to which even the most virtuous men are subject, particularly enlarging on the danger of an over-confidence in the rectitude of our own intentions, and on the comparative ease with which a sudden impulse will sometimes hurry even the best of men, who possesses an overweening reliance on his own firmness of purpose, into a false or even fatal step in life.
"I have known men," observed Salek, "who, although among the best and noblest I have ever met in the course of my life, have been led unawares, by too great self-confidence, into an action which they might easily have avoided by moderate caution, but which has proved the beginning of a long chain of evils, ending at last in their complete ruin."
El Kattab, on the contrary, maintained that a heart accustomed from early youth to virtue, would not be easily led to commit a serious fault; and even if this should happen, that it would readily find its way back from a slight error to the right road. They continued to talk on these subjects, each endeavouring to confirm his assertions by examples, whilst Medjeddin, stretched beside them, listened with attention to their conversation. Suddenly he sprang to his feet, and ran quickly up the woody hill, at the foot of which they were reposing. His father and Salek looked after him surprised, as they could not comprehend what had occasioned his sudden disappearance. They then saw that a little bird, as white as snow, was flying before him, which he was trying to catch. He was soon lost to their view among the bushes; they called to him to come back; but in vain. They waited for a quarter of an hour, and still Medjeddin did not return. Growing uneasy about him, they advanced in the direction in which he had disappeared, but could discover nothing. At last the sun set; then Salek said, "Let us return home: your son is a strong, active young man; he will easily find his way back to the city. Perhaps he has gone home some other way, and will be there before us."
After much opposition, the father was persuaded to return without his son; but he was still full of anxiety which no arguments could overcome. When they arrived at the city, his friend accompanied him to his house. They entered hastily, and inquired for Medjeddin: but he had not returned. Salek's cheering suggestions were of no more avail; El Kattab would no longer listen to him, but threw himself weeping on his couch. Salek rebuked him for this weakness, and represented to him that it might easily have happened that the young man had lost his way in the pursuit of the bird, and could not recover the track all at once.
"He has no doubt found a shelter where he will remain till morning," continued he; "he will return here early to-morrow, and will laugh heartily at your fears."
When Salek was gone, El Kattab gave free scope to his feelings. He wept aloud, tore his beard, and dashed himself upon the ground, like a madman. The slaves stood around in motionless astonishment, surprised to see their master exhibiting such passionate emotion; others sought to console him, but fruitlessly; at length they all began to cry and bewail with him for his dear son, who was beloved by them all. After a sleepless night, the afflicted father rose not at all quieted. He wished early in the morning to send messengers in all directions; but Salek, who had come to inquire if the lost one had returned home, explained to him how foolish this step would be.
"Consider," said he, "that your Medjeddin has most probably found a night's lodging, and slept better than you. Supposing him, therefore, to be at any probable distance, even if he had set out on his way at daybreak, he could hardly be here now: if you send these messengers after him, he may perhaps come home by a shorter path, while they will be searching for him in vain; wait at least till mid-day."
El Kattab yielded; he appointed the messengers to be ready at noon, and in the meanwhile walked through the gardens and in the country around the city, where they had been on the preceding day. His friend accompanied him, although he pointed out that Medjeddin might, in the interval, have reached home while they were walking, and that El Kattab was thus perhaps giving himself more trouble than was necessary.
"I have yielded to you in the rest," replied El Kattab; "let me at least in this instance have my own will, and walk here."
They went together to the fountain in the rock near the palms; they climbed the neighbouring heights; they called the name of the lost one in all directions; but no sound was heard in reply. At noon they went home, and asked all they met if they had seen a young man, whom they accurately described. Nobody could give them any information about him. El Kattab now sent out his messengers in all directions; promising a rich reward to the one who should lead his lost son back to his arms. The messengers returned on the tenth day, and reported that all their researches had been without success. At this the parent's grief knew no bounds. His friend Salek remained almost constantly with him, comforting him; and all his friends held a consultation on the possible means of gaining tidings of Medjeddin. They agreed that he could not have been killed, for then his corpse would have been found: that he had no cause to conceal himself: that he could not have been attacked by enemies, as he had none: might he, they suggested, in the pursuit of the bird, have been led to the brink of the river, and have thrown himself in, and been carried away by the stream? scarcely had this idea presented itself, ere two messengers were despatched to each side of the river to search, from its junction with the Euphrates above Balsora to the spot where it flows into the Arabian Sea, and ascertain if the corpse of Medjeddin had been washed ashore. But these messengers also returned to the anxious parent, without having found what they sought. The parent and his friend now gave up Medjeddin for lost; El Kattab's spirit was broken; grief for his lost son shortened his life; he soon became old: all joy fled from his mind; and his sorrow was only a little alleviated when his faithful friend Salek sat by him in the evening, talking with him of his son, relating the virtues by which he had been distinguished, and telling him how it had been his darling wish that this excellent young man should marry his daughter Maryam.
A few days afterwards the caliph Haroun al Raschid went, as he was accustomed, in disguise, with his grand vizier Giafar, and Mesrur his chamberlain, through the streets of Bagdad, to see with his own eyes and to hear with his own ears how justice and order were maintained by his servants, and whether his people were happy and prosperous. He had, as usual, chosen the last hour of the evening for this walk, because he thought that at this time he could look deeper into the joys and pleasures of his subjects, as they had then ended their daily toils, and were seeking comfort and repose in the bosoms of their families. In the course of his progress he came to a street remarkable for its peculiar quiet. As he approached a house, before the door of which two men were standing whispering, Haroun al Raschid addressed them with these words: "Why do you whisper, as if you were concerting a crime? is not this street lonely enough, that you cannot hold your discourse aloud? Can you tell me why this street is so quiet, as though every inhabitant were dead?"
"I can easily tell you, my lord," answered one of the whisperers; "here, in the next house, lives the unfortunate El Kattab; and, as usual at this hour, his friend Salek is sitting with him to console him. Now all the inhabitants of this street respect this man, and wish not to remind him, by any outburst of joy, that happier men than himself live in his neighbourhood."
Before the caliph could answer him, the man turned away, and entered the house, and the other followed him.
"Have you ever heard of this unfortunate El Kattab before?" asked Haroun al Raschid of his grand vizier; and as he answered in the negative, the caliph proceeded, "Let us make an inspection of the house where this El Kattab dwells; perhaps we may discover the cause of his sorrow."
They drew near, and saw the light from the inner court shining through a crevice. The caliph applied his eye to the aperture, and after he had watched for some time, beckoned his followers to him, and said, "Two grey-headed men are sitting in this court by the light of a lamp, and one seems to be comforting the other; but this latter continues to weep all the more bitterly, the more his companion endeavours to console him: both appear to be of the same rank. I am desirous of knowing what sorrow oppresses the unfortunate El Kattab: order him to appear at my palace early to-morrow morning; perhaps it may be in my power to lighten his calamity."
The next day the grand vizier executed his commission. El Kattab was alarmed when he heard that his presence was required at the palace. He was led into the great hall where the divan usually assembled; but there the attendants left him quite alone. He reviewed the whole of his past life, to see if he had sinned in any way, so as to bring on him the displeasure of the caliph; for he knew that Haroun al Raschid often, in a mysterious manner, discovered the faults of his subjects, and punished them accordingly. But he could not call to mind any deed of which he felt ashamed, nor any that deserved punishment. Whilst he was thus meditating, a curtain was drawn back, and the caliph entered, followed by his vizier and his chamberlain. El Kattab rose from the ground, and bowed his head down to the carpet on which the caliph stood.
"El Kattab," said the caliph, "a heavy weight of grief seems to oppress you; and by the anxiety which your neighbours manifest to show respect for your sorrow, I must consider you as a man of worth: I wish then to know the cause of your despondency; have you any objection to inform me of it before these two witnesses, or would you rather confide to me alone the reason of your tears?"
"Ruler of the faithful," answered El Kattab, "sorrow is great and deep in my soul; but still the cause of it is unworthy to distract for a moment the attention of the caliph from the cares of his kingdom."
The caliph replied, "That which fills the heart of the meanest of my subjects with such grief that it consumes his life, is not unworthy of my care. If I am careful for my whole kingdom, this care none the less extends to each individual; and, if I am careful for one, this one is a member of the whole, and thus my care is not lost. But speak, what is the cause of your affliction?"
El Kattab then recounted the mysterious disappearance of his son; how he had sought for him every where, and how all his messengers had returned home without the least trace of him. "I must therefore weep for him as one that is dead,"—thus he ended his relation; "and in tears perhaps my sorrow might expend itself, if at the same time a spark of hope did not live in my heart, that possibly he is still alive: but ah! where? This spark of hope keeps the wound in the father's heart always open."
"You have, indeed, real cause for grief," answered the caliph, "and I comprehend that the uncertainty of your son's fate must be as terrible to bear, as would be the mournful certainty of his death. You did wrong in not applying to me before; my power extends not only over believers, but also into foreign lands: other kings and rulers I have as my servants, whose eyes see for me, whose ears hear for me, and whose hands perform what is necessary in order to do my pleasure. That which was not possible to yourself, your friends, and your servants to accomplish, may perhaps prove easy for me. Now go home, and believe that you shall obtain news of your son, if he live on the earth, in any land where my power can reach."
With these words he dismissed him, after he had first inquired the marks by which his lost son might be recognised.
When El Kattab was sitting again with his friend Salek in the evening, he related to him the gracious and comforting words of the caliph. Salek perceived that hope was revived in his friend's heart, and that he confidently trusted to find his son. He thought it his duty, therefore, to damp somewhat this hope, and said, "Beloved friend, I have once heard a speech, which sunk deeply in my memory: it is, 'Trust not in princes; they are but men.' In truth, the mightiest on earth are subject to destiny. If the caliph have influence in distant lands, it must still be within a comparatively confined and narrow limit; whilst what is in the farthest regions of the earth, as well as what is but a span distant, are all equally under the control of all-governing fate, even from the meanest slave to the ruler of the faithful."
Haroun al Raschid meanwhile resolved to do all he could to fulfil the hope he had raised in El Kattab's heart. He gave a commission to all his servants in the kingdom, high and low, and to his ambassadors in the neighbouring kingdoms, and even sent into distant lands, with the princes of which he was on terms of friendship, at the same time despatching messengers with the charge to search for Medjeddin with all diligence, giving them a description by which they might recognise him if they found him. But week after week, and month after month passed away; even a whole year elapsed, without any intelligence being received either of the life or death of the lost one. So that all hope of finding him deserted the father for ever.
Medjeddin, meantime, had not perished—none of the accidents suggested by his father's advisers had befallen him; he still lived, but in such complete concealment that it was impossible for any one to discover him. He had followed the snow-white bird till evening, without clearly knowing why: he was induced to think he could catch the curious creature, particularly as it flew at such a moderate height from the ground, and at the same time so slowly. The tardiness of its flight made him conjecture that it must have hurt one of its wings; several times he succeeded in getting quite close to it, but just as he stretched out his hand to seize it, the bird again raised its wings, and flew a little in advance. Medjeddin now felt himself tired, and would have given up the pursuit, but the bird also seemed fatigued; he approached it, but again the bird flew a little farther off. In this chase he climbed a hill, and soon after found himself in a narrow meadow-valley, down which he ran; twilight came, but the snow-white colour of the bird still lighted him on. At last the pursued bird perched in a thicket; he hastened to it, but when he closed his hand to seize his prisoner, it flew away, leaving only one of its tail-feathers tightly grasped in his hand: still he saw it through the twilight flying before him, and still he hastened after it. The bird seemed now to quicken its pace; but as he had so nearly caught it once, he continued the pursuit with more eagerness; he ran through the high grass, with his strained sight fixed on this glimmering white object, he saw nothing else. Thus he came unexpectedly on a small but deep pool of water, which lay across his path; he jumped in, swam across, and tried to climb the other side, but it was so steep that he fell in with some of the crumbling earth: the water closed over his head, and he lost all consciousness. When he came to himself, he found himself lying on the turf, and a tall, grey-headed man of strange appearance by him, clothed in a long black robe reaching to his ancles, and fastened by a glittering girdle of a fiery colour. Instead of a turban, he wore a high pointed cap on his head, with a tassel of the same hue as the girdle.
"Has your life returned to you?" he asked: "you deserved to be suffocated in the mud. Come, we must go farther before daylight quite leaves us."
With these words the stranger raised him from the ground, passed his left arm round his body, and flew with him through the air with the speed of an arrow. Medjeddin again soon lost recollection, and did not know how long he remained in this condition. He awoke at last as from a deep sleep; and looking around, the first thing he observed was a cage of gold wire, hanging from the ceiling by a long golden chain, and within was the snow-white bird he had so long followed. He found himself alone with this bird in a hall, the roof of which was supported on pillars of white marble, and the walls were built of smooth pale-green stones. The openings which served as windows were protected by lattices so skilfully contrived with winding tracery, that even the white bird could have found no space to pass through, even if it had escaped from the cage. Beside one wall stood a crystal urn; and from this fell a stream of clear water, which passing over the curved brim of the urn, was received in a white basin beneath, from which it disappeared unseen. Whilst he was observing this, and wondering what had happened to him, and how he came there, suddenly the old man in the black robe entered from behind a curtain. He carried a small golden box in his hand, and approached him with these words: "You have now caught the white bird, and have it safe in a cage; in this box is food for it, and there is water; take diligent care of it, and mind that it does not escape."
As he said this he disappeared. Medjeddin now arose and walked round the hall: he looked through the windows, and ascertained that he must be in a foreign land, as the forms of the mountains and trees were quite different from any he had before seen. The hall seemed to be high in the air, as if it were the upper story of a lofty tower. No other edifice was to be seen, and from the windows he could not distinguish what shrubs and plants bloomed beneath. He drew the curtain aside, and discovered a doorway; but there was a thick metal door which he could not open. He was now very much embarrassed, for he began to feel hungry, and could find nothing that would serve him for food. He examined the walls to see if he could discover any concealed outlet; he tried to open the lattices, that he might put his head out, and see if there were any body beneath, to whom he might cry out. There was no door; he could not open the lattices; and as far as he could strain his sight in every direction, he could see nobody: he threw himself in despair on the pillow, wrung his hands, and wept, and cried: "I am then imprisoned—imprisoned in a dungeon where splendour and riches are lavished around! Of what avail is it that these walls are built of precious stones? that this lattice is of fine gold, that this cage is of gold, and hangs on a golden chain? I am as much a prisoner behind golden lattices as I should be behind a grating of iron." Then he rose and shouted through the lattices, in hopes that his voice might be heard, and aid brought; but nobody appeared, and no one answered him. When he again threw himself weeping on his couch, after these useless efforts, he observed that the white bird fluttered restlessly in its prison, and pecked at the golden dish for its food, without finding any.