Chapter C: A. F (5)

Ibrahim now gave daily vent to his anger in vehement words against Hussain; and whatever he said was reported to the latter, with additions, so that the enraged cadi only watched for an opportunity to take revenge. This occurred sooner than he expected. The kind, mild government of Haroun al Raschid, however beneficent in some respects, produced in a certain degree disagreeable consequences for himself. The populace had scarcely perceived that they were not forced to tremble slavishly before the noble caliph, than they began to censure his conduct and calumniate him, with the greatest audacity. For some time he allowed this to pass unnoticed. But the insolence increased; and he now all at once issued orders, that any one presuming to revile the actions of the caliph should be executed without mercy. This order had been made public a few days after Ibrahim’s return, indeed on the very morning when his son had gone to Babylon. Being much engaged, he remained at home during that morning, and it was not till nearly evening that he went to a khan, where he was in the habit of spending a few hours every day. He had not spoken to any person, and knew nothing of the proclamation. He had scarcely entered the khan, when a crier came through the street, exclaiming that every one should step aside to make way, as Zobeide, the favourite wife of the caliph was about to pass with her slaves. Ibrahim, who was in a merry mood, and did not often weigh his words nicely, said: “They call Haroun al Raschid the wisest man. It may be that he possesses singular qualities; but as regards women, he is the weakest creature that I never knew. My son, who is twenty years old, is ten times wiser on that score than he is.”

Ibrahim had no sooner said these words, than he was seized by the officers of the cadi, and brought before Hussain. His grief can easily be conceived, when he heard the sentence of death. He entreated Hussain, in the name of their youthful friendship, to save his life.

“You yourself have violated our friendship,” replied the latter, coldly; “there are here witnesses of your words, and I cannot save you. All I can do is, to bring you to the Commander of the Faithful, who wishes to see the first violator of his proclamation, and to witness his execution.”

So far the old slave related. Ali was paralysed with horror; a messenger from the caliph first recalled him to consciousness. “Do you bring me his gray head?” asked Ali; “has the axe already dyed his thin silvery hair with blood?”

“I will bring you to your father,” replied the messenger. “The caliph has granted him permission to take leave of his son before he dies.”

“Is he still living?” cried Ali, and he hastened to the palace. On entering it, he saw the caliph sitting on his throne; while before him his father, with his hands tied behind him, was kneeling on a carpet. A silver basin stood near, and the executioner had already drawn his bright, sharp sword. Ali embraced his father.

“I cannot clasp you in my arms, my son,” said the old man, “but I die for your sake; parental fondness made my lips utter those words.”

“Untie his hands!” cried the caliph; “let him embrace his son before he dies.”

Ali threw himself at the caliph’s feet, and said, imploringly: “Restore me my father.”

“I pity your fate,” said Haroun al Raschid, with emotion, “but I have sworn that the blood of him who should revile my majesty and benevolence shall flow.”

“Oh! then there is hope of delivery,” cried Ali. “Am I not blood of my father’s blood? Let, then, my blood flow for his, that I may fall a sacrifice to your revenge, and that my death may release you from your oath.”

“What is it that you dare to offer me, young man?” said the caliph, sternly. “Do not think to soften my heart by a trick so common! What I have determined is unalterable, and in the name of Almighty God I tell you your tears cannot move me.”

Ali knelt down. “Strike!” he cried to the slave, as he stretched out his neck.

“What are you doing, my son?” cried the old man.

“I imitate my father,” said Ali. “From love to me you have exposed yourself to death, from love to you I will suffer it for you.”

“And your mistress--how will she wring her white hands!” said the caliph.

“Commander of the Faithful, I have none,” said Ali.

“How? Have you no passion? has not all-powerful love struck root in your heart?”

“I love God,” said Ali, “my father, and you, my liege, even in death; for I know that you are otherwise good and just; I love nature, men, and every thing beautiful that flourishes and lives; but no woman has yet awakened a passion!”

“Then Ibrahim was right,” cried Haroun al Raschid, laughing; “then you are really wiser than the caliph. Rise, my friends,” he continued, “neither of you shall die. Ibrahim has not violated my law; he knew it not. He has not praised his son at the expense of the caliph; my oath does not require his blood. Forgive me the terrors of death which I have caused you. A prince has seldom an opportunity of looking into the secrets of the heart with his own eyes. Only on the boundary which separates death from life, all considerations disappear, and only thus could I discover in you a virtue which I now admire. Go home, honest Ibrahim, you are healthy and cheerful, by nature, so that this shock will not be attended with any dangerous consequences. And you, wise Ali,” he continued, smiling, “I will see you again a year hence, and learn whether you are then as wise as you are now.” As soon as he had concluded, he dismissed them, and sent them home laden with splendid presents.

Hussain was an eye-witness of the scene. It may easily be conceived how this sudden act of grace inflamed his hatred, and with what triumph the father and son returned home again.

Ibrahim lived happily with his son, who applied himself anew, with great industry, to the acquisition of knowledge. Once a slave came to Ali’s room and begged him to come down, as his father had purchased something for him in the market. He went down accordingly, and was much surprised at seeing a little, deformed creature, dressed as a slave, standing before him. The little man wore a high hat, with a cock’s feather, on his head; his chest, as well as his back, formed a hump; his squinting eyes were of a pale gray, like those of a cat; and his nose hung over his mouth like a bunch of grapes, and was of a violet colour. For the rest, he was cheerful, brisk, and healthy, notwithstanding all his excrescences; and with his right eye, which was triangular, he looked attentively at Ali, whilst the left was concealed in the angle between the nose and forehead.

Whilst Ali stood wondering at this paragon of human ugliness, his father could not suppress his laughter, and said: “Have I not been to the market at a lucky moment? An hour afterwards it would have been too late, so numerous were those who wished to purchase him. I owe it to my prompt decision that I got him for two hundred pieces of gold. Only think, my wise son, you lock yourself up within four walls, to suck, like a bee, sweetness from old manuscripts; and yet this hunchback slave, who never has had time to sit at home and pore over books, is declared by the opinion of all connoisseurs, to be unequalled in learning throughout Arabia and Persia. You may easily see it in him; wisdom breaks forth in every part of him, and, therefore, great must be the superfluity within! Take him with you; I present him to you to assist you in your studies, and divert you in your hours of leisure.”

When Ali had returned to his room attended by his deformed slave, and the latter saw the great quantity of books and parchments which laid about in every direction, he raised his hands in amazement, and cried with warmth, “The wise Confucius might well say, ‘Blessed is he who recognises the end of his destiny! The way that he must go to reach his goal stands marked before his eyes. Uncertainty and doubt leave him as soon as he enters on that way. Peace and tranquillity strew roses on his path.’ But he also truly said, ‘Unhappy is he who mistakes the branches of the tree for its roots, the leaves for fruit, the shadow for the substance, and who knoweth not how to distinguish the means from the end.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Ali.

“Sadi has said,” replied the little slave, “that the most unprofitable of human beings, is a learned man who does not benefit his fellow-creatures by his learning; we hear the mill clapping but see no flour; a word without a deed is a cloud without rain, and a bow without a string.”

Ali now wished to try whether the knowledge of the slave went beyond these and similar maxims. He examined him and was astonished at his proficiency in the Arabian, Persian, Hindoo, and Chinese philosophy.

“What is your name?” continued Ali.

“When I was born,” replied the hunchback, “my mother was of opinion that I was so easily distinguishable as to require no name, thinking that people would soon enough separate the ram from the goats without tying a red ribbon round his neck.”

“Are you a Mohammedan?” asked Ali, again.

“Mahomet could neither read nor write; I worship Mithra; to him I bow the knee, not to the rising in the east but to the setting in the west.”

“Then you worship the sun?”

“The sun itself is cold, and produces warmth only when combined with the atmosphere of our earth. The fire has beautiful yellow locks and sparkling eyes, it vivifies every thing with its love, and burns most beautifully at night.”

“Still I must call you by a name,” said Ali.

“I am as diminutive, deformed, and ugly, as the renowned _Lockman_,” said the slave, “and he was as shrewd and knew as much as I do. It was the same with Æsop. Many are of opinion that they are one and the same person; if this may be said of two it may also be applied to three. Call me _Lockman_, and believe in the _metempsychosis_. It is the cheapest belief, as it costs the creator least.”

Ali knew not whether to smile or be angry at this frivolous joke. Indeed, he did not know whether he was joking; for every thing that _Lockman_ (as we shall call the slave,) said, was mixed with a certain serious grimace which again frequently changed into sarcastic ridicule.

On the same evening Ali read aloud the following passage from Zoroaster’s “Wisdom:”

“The power hath work’d from all eternity:
Two angels are its subjects--Virtue, Vice,
Of light and darkness mingled;--aye at war.
When Virtue conquers, doubled is the light;
When Vice prevails the black abyss is glad.
To the last day the struggle shall endure.
Then Virtue shall have joy, and Vice have pain,
And never more these enemies shall meet.”

When Ali had read thus far, Lockman, who was still in the room, had so violent a bleeding at the nose that he was obliged to leave it, and Ali saw him no more that evening.

Early in the morning he was awakened by a singing which ascended from the garden. He opened the window and heard a hoarse, though well practised voice, sing the following words:

“Lovely spring returns again,
And his merry glance is warm,
And he sings a lively strain,
But the youth he cannot charm.

“Rosebuds all their fragrance shed,
But his heart they cannot move,
Seeking joys for ever fled,
Through the ruins he must rove.

“Does he dwell amid the flowers,
By some kindly beauty blest?
No; amid the ruin’d towers,
Where the screech owl builds her nest.

“No fair arms around him cling,
Ne’er he tastes a honied kiss;
Songs that ancient dreamers sing,
Those alone afford him bliss.

“Wake him from this sullen sleep,
Lovely spring thy pow’r display,
Or the youth too late will weep,
For the joys he flings away.”[1]

Ali went into the garden, and found Lockman sitting under a tree with a guitar in his hand.

“Do you sing too?” asked Ali.

“If the screeching of an owl can be called singing,” replied he, “I sing like the feathered songster of the grove.”

“Your guitar has a pleasant sound.”

“That it learned from a sheep when a wolf struck its claws into its entrails.”

“What were you singing?”

“A poor song on a great subject composed by one of those poets who always entreat us to take the will for the deed. Do you wish to hear another?”

He sung again.

“Sure some madness it must be,
Thus the present hour to slight,
And to take thy sole delight
In the tales of memory.
Why shouldst thou thy time despise?
Why the past thus fondly prize?
Seek’st thou only what is gone?
Nay, what is’t thou wouldst recall?
Dreamy pleasures--that is all;
Fit for puling babes alone.

“Nay, suppose this honor’d Past
Should return to thee at last,
Friend, thou soon wouldst say: ‘The star
Shines more brightly when afar.’
When the Future’s sunbeams glow,
Fancy paints a glittering bow;
O’er the cloudy Past ’tis spread,
Venture near, and it has fled.
In the centre thou shouldst be,
If thou wouldst the magic see.”

From this time Ali, as usual, went frequently to Izaser’s temple, attended by Lockman.

“Why do you always go this way?” he once asked Ali. “Are not the other suburbs also beautiful?”

“I do not know them as well as these,” replied Ali. “This neighbourhood has been familiar to me from childhood; every step recalls to my memory some moment of my past life, and cannot, therefore, but be most dear to me.”

When they were on the point of going out on the following day, Lockman had put off the handsome dress which Ali had given to him, and appeared again in his former tattered slave’s coat.

“What is that?” asked Ali. “Why have you again put on those rags? Have I not given you a good, decent suit?”

“Forgive me, master,” said he, “I am not so familiar with my new suit as with this: this has been familiar to me in my early life, every hole and every rent recalls to my memory some past moment, and therefore cannot but be extremely dear to me.”

Ali understood him, and found that he was not altogether wrong. “Go back,” said he, “and put on your new suit, and then I will go another way with you.”

They went out at the opposite gate which brought them to another winding of the Tigris. Here they found many gardens surrounded by high walls, between which were beautiful avenues of trees, and stone benches for the repose of travellers. Ali sat down on one of these benches, and, having looked round for some time, sank as usual into a deep reverie. When he had awakened from it he was going to ask Lockman for something, but not seeing him, was obliged to call him several times. Upon which his slave appeared from a thick copse adjoining the wall.

“Come, Lockman,” cried Ali, “I want you to tell me something.”

“Such things cannot be told at all,” replied the latter, with a sigh. “Do you wish to hear trite similes of rosy cheeks, ruby lips, pearly teeth, lily hands, bosoms like pomegranates covered with snow, eyebrows like rainbows? Come and see for yourself, for you will behold an incomparable beauty, who being a female is probably not always the same.”

Ali approached the copse, where, through a hole in a wall, he could see into a beautiful garden, with splendid _jets d’eau_ which fell into basins of marble. A lovely female form was sitting on the turf, and many other beautiful girls surrounded her as the paler lights of heaven surround the evening star. Her youth was in its highest splendour, and was adorned with those beautiful colours which are otherwise found only in the most dissimilar objects in nature, and which Lockman had named. But Ali perceived besides, a grace playing on her lips, and a spirit in her eyes such as we see neither in the lustre of rubies nor in that of diamonds. Innocence and infantine serenity animated her countenance; her movements were natural and easy, like those of a Zephyr; and from the affability which she showed to her attendants, Ali inferred the gentleness of her disposition. He stood enraptured in the contemplation of this beauty, believing that he beheld an angelic being. A deep red was suddenly suffused over his face, while, beckoning to his slave, he retired from the wall. He looked in again, and perceived that her slaves were undressing her. Her long hair already fell over her bare shoulders, and her white garment floated loosely round her beautiful bosom. Officious hands loosened the tight bodice, and from all the preparations it was evident that she was about to take a refreshing bath in the hour of evening.

“Master,” cried Lockman, “in the name of Allah and the prophet, pray wait and continue watching.”

Ali, incensed, took him by the collar and threw him backwards.

“Oh, you are not in your senses,” cried the slave, vexed, as he followed him; “you shut your mouth close that you may not enjoy the manna in the wilderness which falls from heaven; you will not take a refreshing draught in the desert when it is offered. You are no Mussulman. A Mussulman loves sensual pleasure, the prophet has permitted it to us in this life, and promised it in the next.”

“The prophet did not enjoin what he permitted,” said Ali. “As the angel took out of his heart the black drops in which were concealed the seeds of evil, in the same manner also can the angel purify the heart of every man.”

“You are no true Mussulman,” said Lockman, “neither war nor sensual pleasure delight you.”

“No,” replied Ali, “they do not; but courage and love do.”

“Go to the foggy Europe,” cried Lockman; “you are no Asiatic; the prophet of Nazareth has misled you. Your virtue is not an active one, it is only abstinence; your life is but a continued preparation for death.”

Ali broke off the conversation, and went away vexed, but soon forgot Lockman. The lovely maiden on the turf was still present to his imagination in all her beauty.

In anxious expectation he waited for the next evening, and went unattended by Lockman.

On first arriving he sat down, and meditated to whom this garden could possibly belong. He then walked several times up and down the avenue between the walls, and not seeing any one near, could not resist stopping by the hedge and looking through the hole into the garden. However he saw no one, for the garden was forsaken. On the turf, opposite the _jet d’eau_, lay a rose which he wished to possess. As he still stood gazing some one tapped him softly on the shoulder, upon which he looked around, and saw standing before him a middle-aged and affable woman, who asked him smiling,

“What are you looking after, young gentleman?”

Ali was embarrassed.

“You need not answer,” said she. “Your little dwarf has been here this morning, and has settled every thing with me. My mistress is very anxious to see you.”

And without waiting for an answer, she took Ali by the hand, and led him through an open garden door into a thick arbour where she left him.

The beautiful Gulhyndi came to meet him dressed in a fine black suit of satin with short sleeves, which enhanced the natural whiteness of her arms, hands, and neck. Her hair flowed in long tresses down her back; and a deep bodice set with precious stones encircled her slender waist.

“You will be surprised, sir,” she said with natural freedom from embarrassment, “at being brought so suddenly before a young girl whom you do not know. I will at once free you from the state of uncertainty in which you might easily remain to my disadvantage. Know then that I have hazarded this step as the only means of becoming acquainted with a man of such excellent qualities, whose intellectual conversation I have long wished to enjoy. It is not for the first time that we see each other; indeed, we have known each other for a long time.”

The fair one now took a long veil which concealed her face, leaving a small opening only for the eyes, walked a few paces up and down, and then asked him, “Do you know me thus?”

Ali started; it was his unknown friend of Izaser’s temple.

“I am certain you now know me. My name is Gulhyndi. I have long known you, and better than you imagine. A pious dervish with whom I often conversed in the temple on holy things, frequently spoke of you; and I will not deny,” she continued, blushing, “that your appearance seems to confirm me in what I have heard of you. My nurse, who is a Christian, has exerted a great influence upon my education. We poor Arab women are condemned to sit like prisoners in a cage without receiving instruction or any cultivation for our minds. But I can bear it no longer, and beseech you, noble young Mussulman, who surpass in sense and judgment so many of your age, not to make me repent a step which reason sanctions, although as a timid girl I must blush at it.”

“Lovely stranger,” said Ali, “I swear to you by Allah that I will strive to merit your confidence, and never to make myself unworthy of it.”

“All depends upon our devising a disguise under which I may see you daily. Do you play an instrument?”

“I play the guitar,” replied Ali.

“That is fortunate. My father has promised that I shall learn this instrument, and has given me permission to receive daily instruction from a Frank slave in the presence of my nurse. You must be this slave: will you not?”

“Lovely Gulhyndi,” said Ali, “I am your slave already.”

Gulhyndi blushed.

“You already act in character, you say sweet things to me, a fault with all Franks; in this respect we Orientals have the advantage over them, we tell the true feeling of our hearts plainly.”

“So do I; I have not disguised my nature.”

“This is a repetition,” cried she, laughing; “I see you are more cunning than I thought; perhaps I have done wrong in reposing such confidence in you.”

It was now agreed that Ali should procure a Frank dress, such as liberated slaves wore, and should come the next day with his guitar. Maria, the nurse, accompanied him to the door, entreating him to pardon Lockman, who, from zeal for his master, and without his orders, had that morning arranged the whole plan. The enraptured Ali promised it, and inquired of her who her mistress was.

“As you value your own happiness and hers,” answered Maria, “ask me no questions. Be it sufficient for you to know that her name is Gulhyndi. She knows no more of you than that your name is Ali. The moment you know more than this of each other, all your joy will be turned to sadness.”

Ali was forced to promise that he would not inquire further. He hastened to buy a beautiful guitar, and impatiently awaited the hour which should again reveal to him his earthly Paradise. It arrived. He entered the garden, and was led to the arbour as he had been the day before, though Maria did not go away, but remained at the entrance. Gulhyndi met him much more splendidly attired than on the previous day. According to the fashion of Persia, she appeared in a light gay velvet garment, which hung loosely around her body, and was not confined by a bodice. Her beautiful face was encircled with strings of genuine pearls and precious stones; on her fingers she wore diamonds set in silver, the Orientals not being permitted to wear gold rings. She had green stockings, which showed the symmetry of her ancles, and on her small feet were shoes embroidered with gold. Smiling, she said: “Do not think, dear Ali, that I have chosen this dress from vanity. My father, who loves pomp, has been with me, and I have not had time to change it as I expected. I will leave you for a moment, and will be with you immediately, for this attire is not sociable. I can scarcely turn my head with the weight of these jewels, nor move my fingers with these rings.”

Having said these words, she went away, attended by Maria. Ali followed her with his eyes; and though he wished he might see her in a plain attire, which would rather display than conceal her graceful form, yet he could not refrain, as she went away, from exclaiming, with the poet; “How lovely is thy gait in shoes, thou daughter of princes! Thy cheeks are lovely with gems, and thy neck with chains. Thine eyes are as the eyes of doves, between thy tresses. Thy slender form is as that of the palm-tree, and thy bosom is like doves. Oh! my dove in the rock, show thy form again, and let me hear thy voice, for thy voice is sweet, and thy form is lovely!”

It was not long before she returned in her black dress. How much more beautiful did she look! On her partly veiled, swelling bosom, which dazzled the eyes of Ali by its whiteness, hung a ruby, which was blood-red with anger, at being surpassed by the redness of her lips. A lily of silver was entwined in her hair. She took the guitar, saying: “We must lose no time; you shall not bring it in vain; therefore, now teach me.”

Ali obeyed, and taught her the touch of the strings. How did he tremble, when he had to touch her white hands and delicate fingers! She was as delighted as a child when she could play the first chord. “How much sometimes there is in the combination of the elementary sounds,” she cried.

“Lovely Gulhyndi,” said Ali, “the holy seven tones have the same heavenly relation, by nature, as the holy seven colours that beam to us from the rainbow. All we see and hear is nothing but a repetition, and the variation of these.”

“Why, then, has the prophet forbidden music in the churches?” asked Gulhyndi.

“The human voice,” replied he, “is the noblest instrument, and the most worthy of Omnipotence; the prophet considered it a duty that man should offer the best to God. We, fair Gulhyndi, will not despise the music of these chords in this earthly life, since it supports and elevates our human voice, and connects man with nature.”

The sun was now setting, and cast its last gleam over the wall into the arbour. “Play and sing another song, as a farewell,” said she. Ali sang as follows:

“My tuneful strings your music swell,
And sweetly tell
The feelings words can never tell aright.
Resound! In you my joys should be expressed.
Soften that breast,
And breathe to spring my transports of delight.

“Sing, as the nightingale from some dark tree
Pours melody;
And bear along my feelings on your wings;
And let my thoughts like some fair streamlet flow,
In evening’s glow,
When to far lands its gentle sound it brings.

“The thoughts for which all language is too weak,
The lyre can speak;
Although love’s fetters have the tongue confined.
When love has come, repose gives place to pain,
And words are vain.
Notes have no words--yet is their sense divined.”

After this Ali had frequent opportunities of seeing Gulhyndi. Once finding her pale, and with her eyes red from weeping, he asked her with sympathy: “Lovely Gulhyndi, what ails you?”

“I will and must tell you, Ali,” said she; “when you have heard me you will be convinced of the necessity I felt to seek your advice and confidence. I have told you already that my nurse is a Christian. She has endeavoured to convert me to the Christian faith; but the lessons which my mother gave me in my childhood have always closed my heart against her persuasions and proofs. Still she has often rendered me most uneasy; and though unsuccessful in these endeavours to convert me to her religion, has shaken my faith in ours. ‘The prophet,’ she says, ‘excludes the female half of mankind from heaven; therefore, what are you striving for? In this life you need no supernatural assistance, and in the next it is denied you. But to go no farther than this life; what have you become through the cruel institution of Mahomet? Before your marriage you are a bird shut up in a cage, and when married, an unhappy wife, who shares the favours of a tyrant with a hundred others. Follow my advice, take your jewels and flee to Europe. My family is large and happy, my native country is extensive and beautiful; its women are much respected. Many youths will strive to please you; every one will esteem himself happy to obtain your hand. The Christian church will receive you in her bosom, and in the next life infinite mercy awaits you.”

Gulhyndi was silent for a moment, to hear whether Ali would say any thing in reply. As he continued silent, contemplating her attentively with an affectionate look, she continued:

“I should not perhaps have been strong enough to withstand her persuasions had not a singular occurrence taken place to confirm me. During a sleepless night, when tormented with grief and anguish of conscience, I lay on my couch with my hands folded, and all at once fell into a sweet sleep, during which I dreamt I saw the ceiling of the room opening, and a charming fairy coming down to me on a rosy cloud, which filled the room with perfume. She appeared in an azure silk garment, over which hung a transparent crape, on which were wrought silver stars; on her head was a crown of diamonds, and her hands held a sceptre of emerald. She bent over my pillow, touched my temples with her sceptre, and said, ‘Be of good cheer daughter, flee not, and deny not your faith. Virtue is a flower that blooms in every clime. Be firm without despairing. I promise you a youth who will love you alone and be faithful to you. He shall, like yourself, spring from the tribe of Ishmael, and dwell in your tents.’ When she had said this she disappeared. I have often seen her after this, when I have been in trouble; but she has only floated down to me and contemplated me smiling for a moment, which, however, has always inspired me with fortitude for many days. For two months, however, I have not seen her, and Maria urges me daily. Thus I met you in this state of excitement. Oh, Ali! forsake not the timid roe which seeks shelter in your protection.”

How was it possible for Ali to conceal his sentiments any longer?

“Gulhyndi,” he cried, “the youth which the good fairy promised you, you have already found, if you will be satisfied with my love and fidelity.”

“Ali,” said she, trembling, “let not compassion for an unhappy being make you think you love her.”

“I have not known before this day what love is,” said he; “but if it be a feeling that supplants every other, and makes the beloved object its sole desire on earth, then I love you.”

She could find no words in answer; her arms embraced the happy Ali, and in the first kiss he enjoyed the highest happiness.

“But,” continued she, when she had in a measure recovered from the first transport, “you still must flee, Ali, you must leave your country if you love me. Oh, Allah, how could I expect this from thee,” she exclaimed, with a sigh; “no, no, I shall act against the warning of my good fairy. She promised me a lover with whom I should not be compelled to flee, who should dwell with me in my tents. Alas, Ali, this is impossible with you, and without you the world has no joys for me.”

“Be of good cheer, beloved Gulhyndi, my father is a wealthy and respected man; I do not know yours, but he cannot have any objection to our union if the wealthy Ibrahim solicits you for his son, and grants him the dowry.”

He had scarcely uttered these words, when the terrified Maria came running to them, and crying: “For Heaven’s sake, children, compose yourselves as you value your life. Your father is coming,” she said to Gulhyndi; “play, play,” she said, to Ali.

He took the guitar and had scarcely played a few notes, when Hussain Cadi entered the arbour. Ali’s terror may easily be conceived. His hand almost dropped the guitar so greatly was he embarrassed.

Hussain looked at him attentively. “Is this the Greek slave, daughter,” he asked, “whom your nurse procured to instruct you in music?”

“Yes, father,” replied Gulhyndi, trembling.

“You are agitated, you have been weeping, what is the meaning of all this?”

“Father, he has sung to me an air which has affected me deeply.”

“Ah! does he so well understand the art of moving your feelings?” asked Hussain. “Play, you Christian dog,” said he, turning to Ali, “move me, also, for once.”

“Pardon your slave, sir,” said Ali, “feelings cannot be forced; if this sweet art is to produce its effect, the mind must be favourably attuned before hand.”

“Then I suppose you understand how to effect this?” asked Hussain, looking at Ali with a searching glance.

Ali was silent.

“Are you a freed slave? Who was your master in Bagdad before?”

In answer to this Ali mentioned a name.

“You seem to me to be rather an Arab than a Frank,” said Hussain, very emphatically.

As Ali was going to reply, Hussain suddenly exclaimed, “Yes, it is he, I know the hateful countenance, I know the detestable features.” Pale with fury he put his hands to his side, but did not find his sword. “Wait a moment,” he said, with affected indifference, “I shall be here again instantly.”

Leaving the arbour hastily, he clapped his hands to summon a slave; but none appearing, he hurried to the house. Ali and Gulhyndi were now in the utmost despair.

“Come, my beloved,” she said, as she embraced Ali, “only through the heart of his daughter shall his sword find its way to yours.”

“That would not be a very strong shield,” cried a hoarse voice, from the wall; “come, master, save your life, and own the fidelity of your servant.”

Ali cast his eyes upwards and saw Lockman sitting astride on the wall, with a rope ladder which he quickly lowered. He embraced his beloved, and availed himself of this mode of rescue, which came as if sent by Heaven. He was soon on the other side of the wall with Lockman, who, with singular speed, took him round the corner and concealed him in a thick hedge. As soon as night came on he hastened home, attended by Lockman, and thanked him for his marked fidelity and his intrepid courage.

The first thing he now did was to speak to his father and confide his secret to him. He said, at length, “As you love your son, conquer your hatred against Hussain, go with me to him, solicit the hand of his daughter for me, and offer your hand to him in reconciliation.”

“Is this possible, my son?” said Ibrahim. “Can love so far carry you away that it makes you forget what you owe to your father? You ask of me to degrade myself for the sake of your passion?”

“Is it degrading to reconcile oneself with one’s enemy?” asked Ali.

“I did once make a step towards a reconciliation,” replied Ibrahim, “which was contemptuously spurned, and I have sworn by the Omnipotent Allah that as sure as the gold cloth was torn, so surely shall Hussain be for ever torn from my heart. Compose yourself, my son, conquer your passion; there are pretty girls enough in Bagdad besides her. I am rich and can buy the most beautiful slaves for you; but never think of an alliance with the blood of Hussain; it would be an union against nature, and the day of your union would be the day of your father’s death.”

All the entreaties and persuasions of Ali were of no avail with his father; the otherwise mild Ibrahim was incensed against his son to a degree that had never been known before, and, turning his back upon him, he said, “Be silent and forget your folly if you do not wish, me to curse the moment in which your mother brought you into the world. He who loves Hussain’s daughter cannot love me, and I must look upon him as an enemy who intends evil against me.”

Ali was now left alone in despair. Soon, however, Lockman made his appearance, and asked him, “Why are you so dejected?”

“Fate will deprive me of my earthly bliss,” replied Ali.

“When did fate ever do so?” rejoined Lockman, “that must have happened in a moment when I was not present.”

“Begone,” cried Ali, “am I not unhappy enough without your mockery aggravating my grief?”

“I come not only with mockery,” said Lockman, “but sometimes with rope ladders.”

“Pardon me,” said Ali, “grief made me forget your kindness.”

“Well,” replied Lockman, “I forgive every thing but awkwardness.”

“And what remedy is there for me?”

“Nothing easier than to find the remedy for you, provided you will make use of it.”

Ali looked at him amazed.

“Have you then forgotten the caliph entirely? His favour, and what he told you at the time?” asked Lockman.

A ray of hope now darted through Ali’s desponding mind.

“Go to the caliph,” continued Lockman, “confess all to him; he will be amused, nay, rejoiced, for it will flatter him to find that you have been at last caught in the net of love. You have before now found favour in his sight; he will laugh at your love intrigue and give his orders; one word from him will be the foundation of your happiness.”

Ali was delighted, but his joy shortly left him after a closer examination of Lockman’s advice. He thought of the wrath of Hussain, his vindictive disposition, and said to himself: “If I am to go I must go at once, to-morrow it will be too late; he is spiteful, he is cadi, and has the power to put his evil designs into execution.”

“Then go this very evening,” said Lockman.

Ali wrapt himself in his cloak and went. The evening was already advanced, but the weather was fine and the moon shone. When he arrived at the palace he saw that it was splendidly lighted up, and he heard music. “Ah,” he said, with anxious heart, “the caliph is celebrating a festival to-night; there is no hope of my being admitted, and to-morrow it will be too late.”

His fears were confirmed by the words of the porters, who told him that the caliph would speak to no one so late, and that he must return the next day. One of them, however, said: “What can this stranger have to say to the caliph? Why is he wrapt up in a large cloak, and why does he come at this hour of the night? Confusion is in his face. Might he not be a traitor who intends to murder the caliph in a private interview? I think it will be most advisable to bring him to the cadi that he may guard him for the night in his house. To-morrow he can be released again if found innocent.”

Several of the others agreed to this proposal, saying: “It is not the first time that such an attempt has been made against the caliph’s life. The caliph is too noble-minded to have any suspicion; but it is the duty of his servants to watch over his safety.”

The terror of Ali may easily be conceived when one of the guard laid hands on him to conduct him to Hussain. In his alarm he threw back his cloak, and cried: “I am Ali the son of Ibrahim! the caliph knows me and has shown me distinguished favour. I have to communicate things of importance, and you will incur his highest displeasure if you treat a peaceful citizen like a base vagabond.”

Fortunately for Ali one of the guard knew him; and persuaded the others to release him, assuring him that it was impossible to speak to the caliph that night, and that he must return the following day.

Ali, in this state of uncertainty, walked a long time up and down the street. He had been denied an appeal to his only deliverer; he was unwilling to return to the house of his incensed father without having effected his purpose; and from the enraged cadi he had to fear the worst. Deeply distressed, he sat down on a bench on the banks of the Tigris.

He had not been there long before he perceived three old dervishes coming slowly up the street. They saluted him, but he scarcely noticed it. One of them came up to him and sat down next to him, whilst the others pursued their way.

“Let it not displease you, sir,” said the old man, “that I address you without knowing you,--but if one has no acquaintance one must try to make some. We are dervishes, and are coming from Basra in order to speak to the caliph on matters of consequence. Unfortunately we arrived here too late. He celebrates a festival for a new slave whom he has received into his harem: and we were obliged to quit the palace without succeeding in our object. We had hoped to be allowed to sleep quietly in the outer court of the palace until to-morrow; but this hospitality is no longer permitted, as they fear the safety of the caliph might be endangered. We have already been walking about for more than an hour to find accommodation in an inn. I am the oldest, and am most weary,--permit me, therefore, to rest myself at your side; my companions will perhaps be more successful in their search.”

“I regret,” said Ali, “that this evening I am disposed to any thing rather than to entertaining people by my conversation. But if you will go to my father’s house (telling him at the same time where he resided) he will receive you hospitably, and will feel pleasure in entertaining you during your stay in Bagdad. Come with me and I will show you the way. It is, moreover, not safe for us to loiter any longer about the streets, for the constables of the cadi have orders to arrest every one whom they meet after a certain hour.”

“Why, we have nothing to fear from them to night,” replied the dervish, “as they are making merry at the cadi’s expense, in consequence of the great fortune which his daughter has met.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Ali.

“Why,” replied he, “have you not heard that she has been given to the caliph, and that the festival is celebrated on her account? If the love she has kindled in the caliph, when he saw her for the first time, is of lasting duration, she may entertain the hope of becoming one of his most favourite wives.”

“Impossible!” cried Ali.

“It is quite true,” said the dervish.

“Then,” exclaimed Ali, “I must speak to the caliph. He must restore her to me! I will strike down the guards if they offer to prevent my entrance. I will murder the caliph, and then her and myself----”

“Young man, you are mad! Would you murder the Commander of the Faithful? The mere utterance of such a design is high treason.”

“I go,” cried Ali, half frantic, “I can die with Gulhyndi, but not survive her dishonour and my own.”

“What dishonour?” asked the dervish. “Can it be any thing but the highest honour for her to rest in the arms of Haroun al Raschid?”

“Heaven and earth!” said Ali, as he attempted to go.

“Wait an instant,” said the old man, “and compose yourself. Is it possible,” he continued, “that the same city can contain two men of such opposite temperaments? Love has changed you to a blood-thirsty tiger, and a youth named Ali is said to live here who is a pattern of such a cool nature, that his fame has reached us even at Basra.”

“I am this very Ali!” cried the unfortunate youth.

“You Ali? Impossible! Ali is wise.”

“The highest wisdom is love,” said Ali; “but why do I tarry here, and waste my time upon you, while--ah?----”

He was going to tear himself away from the old man and hasten to the palace, but the dervish said, “As you are in such great haste, I will detain you only long enough to listen to one word of reason, if your agitated feelings will allow you. You have offered us a night’s lodging without knowing us, and thereby laid us under some obligation, and as it is, moreover, the duty of men of our pious order to assist believers as far as we can, follow my advice and come with us, and we will bring you before the caliph. My companions are approaching and will go with us. Your purpose of striking down the guards is sheer madness, and you will repent it if you reflect a moment. In order to be admitted, we must say we come on important business from the governor of Basra. Once in the caliph’s presence, we will, as ministers of religion and virtue, throw ourselves at his feet and solicit your betrothed from him. Perhaps we may move him,--perhaps he will be touched by your situation, and if he is not, then there is still time enough for you to act as despair prompts you.” Ali thanked the good dervish for his offer. The other two were soon informed of the plan, and immediately assented to it as the best arrangement, though they had some difficulty in persuading Ali, who, notwithstanding the distracted state of his mind, perceived to what danger they exposed themselves on his account.

Arrived at the palace, they found but little difficulty in obtaining admittance; a few words to the guards procured them a ready entrance, and much respect was shown to the eldest. They were led through several apartments into a magnificent saloon, which was lighted with innumerable wax tapers. In the back ground stood the caliph’s throne, and a great number of young girls afforded amusement by music and dancing. Ali, however, could discern neither the caliph nor Gulhyndi; and turning to the old dervish, with his face quite pale, he asked, “Where are they?”

“The caliph has probably retired to his own apartment with his young bride,” replied he. “Alas! poor Ali, we have come too late.”

Ali shuddered, when the dervish began to break out into loud laughter, and throwing off his cap and cloak, stood before him in princely splendour as Haroun al Raschid. “Wise Ali,” he cried, “must I see you again in a situation where you are not a hair’s breadth wiser than the caliph?” So saying, he took him by the hand and led him to an adjoining apartment, where he was received by Gulhyndi. “Accept your bride from my hands,” said the caliph; “she is yours, and I renounce all my claims to her. But I will not proceed in an arbitrary manner in this affair; I have sent for your parents, and trust to obtain their consent.” He had scarcely uttered these words, when Hussain and Ibrahim were brought in. “Hussain!” said the caliph, sternly, “I have reason to be very angry with you. You have not offered me your daughter on my own account, you have employed me as an instrument to wreak your revenge. You have sacrificed this poor girl to prevent Ali’s union with her; she would be unhappy, had not despair inspired her with courage to disclose all to me. Give your consent, as that is the only way by which you can be restored to my favour.”

“Commander of the Faithful!” replied Hussain, “yours is the power, but you are good and just, and you will not abuse it. From the moment when I discovered that my daughter would be beautiful, I formed the resolution that she should belong to you or none. I was obliged thus suddenly to put this resolution into effect by this youth, the son of my deadly enemy, who has not solicited my daughter from me, but has cunningly crept into my house in order to seduce her. That I give to you what I thought too good for every one else cannot surely displease you. You are the father of your people, and you will not punish with your displeasure your slave, who in his trouble, flies to you for refuge.”

“I know all,” said the caliph; “use no shifts. You and Ibrahim shall become friends again, and render your children happy;--such is my will.”

“This alliance,” replied Hussain, “would be my greatest misfortune, and death more welcome. I entreat you, sire, if I have shown any fidelity and zeal towards you during my long service; reward them by allowing me the authority of a father; do not deprive me of the power over the fate of my child.”

“She cannot be mine,” cried Al Raschid.

“Then,” said Hussain, “my misfortune is great; permit me and my daughter to go home, and mourn the loss of your favour in sackcloth and ashes.”

“And you, Ibrahim,” said the caliph, turning to him, “will you not advance a step towards the happiness of your child?”

“Commander of the Faithful,” said Ibrahim, “I do not think that a man is made more unhappy by not obtaining a woman upon whom he has set his heart, perhaps only for a moment. If it were so, I ought to be very unhappy, for Hussain is the very man who once robbed me of my betrothed, and with her the hope of my youth. I trust my son will be contented to share the fate of his father, and to suffer what I have suffered--a grief which I know, from experience, does not endure long, and for which the world affords us sufficient compensation.”

The blood came into Al Raschid’s face, and a fire flashed from his eyes, which usually was the forerunner of sudden wrath; still he restrained himself. “Is it your unalterable resolution,” he asked, “to conspire against the happiness of this young man, and against my will?”

Both parents perceived the emotion of the caliph’s mind. Hussain continued calm, but Ibrahim turned pale, and threw himself at the caliph’s feet, exclaiming: “I am your slave, your pleasure be done! You are wise, and you act as the successor of the Prophet, as the guardian angel of religion and the people. I give my consent.” “My son,” he thought within himself, “may take several wives; he may repudiate her whom he took first; I shall not lose so much as Hussain, and be no nearer to him than formerly.”

Hussain contemplated him, smiling, with a chilling and contemptuous expression.

“And what do you say, Hussain?” asked the caliph.

“Commander of the Faithful, your will be done. To-morrow I will celebrate the nuptials of my daughter; but you will permit me to take her home with me to-night. Ali’s betrothed must not pass the night in the harem of the caliph.”

“Take her; but your life shall answer for her.”

“I answer for her with my life,” said Hussain, with composure; and taking his daughter by her hand, he retired.

“Oh! let him not go hence!” exclaimed Ali. “Gulhyndi, my beloved!”

She turned round, and looked at Ali with a sorrowful smile, and then went away with her father. The caliph consoled Ali, who went home with Ibrahim, in the greatest despair.

When Hussain arrived home, he ordered his daughter to go to bed immediately, that she might rise with the early dawn, bathe, perform her devotions, and prepare for a long journey which they would make together. Poor Gulhyndi passed the night in the greatest affliction, being convinced that her father had arranged every thing for flight, and that she had seen Ali for the last time.