THE STORY OF MEDJEDDIN.
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.
"Poor brother in misfortune," said Medjeddin, "you shall not suffer want; I will take care of you; come, I will bring you what you want."
He took the pans from the cage, filling one with water from the urn, and the other with grain from the gold box which the old man had given him. Scarcely had he hung the last on the cage, when, on turning round, he saw a table behind him covered with costly viands. He was astonished, and could not understand how this had happened; still it was not long before he attacked the meats with the zest of a young man who had fasted nearly all day. Although these viands were altogether different from those he had been accustomed to taste in his father's house, they all appeared excellent. He ate till he was fully satisfied, and then took from the table a golden cup, and quenched his thirst with pure water from the urn. After this he threw himself on a couch and fell asleep. When he awoke he felt strong and well. He arose and began to make another tour of the hall, and he then observed that the table with the meats had disappeared. This was a disappointment, as he had thought to make a good supper of the remainder. He did not allow this, however, to trouble him much, as he now felt pretty sure that he was not to die of hunger. He next proceeded to scrutinise his prison more closely: he examined all anew, pillars, walls, and floor; but could no where find a crevice or a fissure: all was fast and whole. His view from the windows did not allow him to make any further discovery; he only saw that he was very far above the earth, and in a spacious valley; mountains were to be seen in the distance, with curiously-pointed summits. As soon as he had completed this examination, and found there was nothing to occupy him, he turned his attention to the white bird in the cage. Here was still life; and if the cage was narrow, yet the prisoner could hop about on the different perches. Soon it remained still and gazed at him with its bright eyes, which seemed as if sense and speech lay in them, the interpretation only was wanting.
Night put an end to these reflections. Next morning he observed that the bird again wanted food. He filled its seed-pan with grain from his golden box, and gave it fresh water from the urn. Scarcely had he done this, when the table covered with meats again stood in the same place as the day before. This day passed like the former, and the following in the same manner; Medjeddin wept and mourned, took care of the little bird, fed it, and was every time rewarded in the same manner with the table covered with dishes as soon as he had filled the bird's seed-pan. He could not perceive who brought the table, nor how it disappeared. It always came whilst he stood beside the cage with his back turned, and without any noise. On the ninth day the old man suddenly appeared to him, and said, "To-day is a day of rest for you; you have performed your duty during the preceding days in giving the bird its food, you may now amuse yourself in the garden till evening." He led him through a door into a narrow passage, at the end of which they descended twenty steps; he then opened a small metal trap-door, and then Medjeddin descended twenty steps more: they next came to a similar door, and descended twenty more steps to a third, and so on, till, after passing the ninth door, they found themselves in the open air.
"Remain here till you are called," said the old man, who went back into the building through the same doors, which he shut after him. Medjeddin was very curious to examine more closely the building in which he had been imprisoned: he therefore went round it, and narrowly observed it. It was a tower of nine stories, each about fifteen feet in height. The tower was nine-sided, with a window in the third side of each story, so arranged that no window was directly over another, and that consequently only three altogether appeared in each side of the tower from bottom to top. This distribution of regularity and order reigned throughout the whole building. The walls were made of large pieces of gold, quite as smooth as glass; and these were so skilfully put together that, even when closely looked at, the joints could not be discovered. The lattices of the windows were all of gold, like those in the upper hall, and the lower doors through which he had passed were of a yellow metal, inclining to green. All these considerations were not calculated to lessen his conviction that no man could possibly find him out in such a prison. Suddenly a new hope awoke in him: "I am no longer shut up in the tower," said he to himself; "here I am in the open air, in a garden: I can clamber and jump like a monkey; I may possibly find some outlet from this garden, by which I can escape." He immediately turned from the tower, and hastened through the gardens, seeking freedom; but he soon discovered that this hope was vain. He found the gardens surrounded on all sides by a lofty wall, constructed of the same materials, and quite as glassy, as the tower. After making the whole circuit of the garden, he at length found a gate, consisting of a grating of strong iron bars, polished to the highest degree of smoothness, and so close together, that he could scarcely pass his arm through. He tried to climb it by holding by the upper bars with his hands; but his feet slipped on the smooth iron, and he hurt his knee so much, that he lost his hold and fell backwards on the earth. He next examined the grating closely to see if there were no means of escape; but all was in vain: every where the bars were high, thick, and like polished glass. Sorrowfully he wandered round the garden; the sun's rays darting down scorched up the grass, and he sought some shade where he might screen himself from their influence. He lay down on a mossy bank, and meditated anew on his fate. Besides his own grief at his imprisonment, the thought of his father's sorrow at his loss pained him. The exhaustion consequent on tears and loud lamentations, joined with the noontide heat, at last caused him to fall into a deep sleep. When he awoke, the table covered with meats was again before him; he ate, and wandered again mournfully through the garden, meditating whether he could not make a ladder from the trees around him, to aid him in his escape over the grating. But there was something wanting for this work; he had not even a dagger or a knife. As he thus thought, the old man appeared, and said, "Evening is drawing on; follow me in." He led him again to the upper room of the tower, and locked the metal door upon him.
There was no change observable in his prison, only the bird seemed harassed and mournful; it sat quiet and still on the lowest perch, its plumage was rough, and its eyes dull. "Poor creature," said Medjeddin, "what is the matter? are you ill?" It seemed as if the bird was affected by these sympathising questions, but it soon sank again into its former dejection. He mused long upon this. The next day and the following ones passed like the former; but on the ninth the old man again appeared, led him into the garden, and at night conducted him back into the hall. He took care of the bird; and as soon as he had given it food and water, he always found the table covered with meats behind him. In the intervals he stood at the lattice of one of the three windows looking on the plain below, earnestly hoping to catch sight of some person to free him from his captivity. In such monotonous employment many months passed away: every ninth day the old man appeared, and gave him leave to walk in the garden; but he did not derive much amusement from his strolls in this narrow enclosure. In the mean time he asked the old man many times the reason of his imprisonment, and how long it was to last. No answer was vouchsafed but these words: "Every man has his own fate; this is thine."
One day the old man appeared and led him into the garden as usual; but he had not been there more than a quarter of an hour, when he returned, called him in, and then quickly retired with marks of disquietude. Medjeddin also remarked that the white bird, which he had learnt to love more every day, sat at the bottom of its cage, more mournful than it usually was after the old man's visit. He drew near, and observed a little door in the cage which he had never before seen. He examined it closely, and found a fine bolt which passed into a ring of gold wire. These were made so skilfully, and worked into the ornamental parts of the cage so cunningly, that nobody could have discovered them if his attention had not been drawn to them by design or accident. Medjeddin pushed back the bolt and opened the door; the bird started up as if some sudden joy had seized it, hopped out, and as soon as it touched the floor was transformed, and in its stead a young maiden stood before Medjeddin, clothed in a white silk robe; beautiful dark locks streamed over her neck and shoulders, and a thin fragrant veil fell over them, confined by a fillet set with precious stones; her finely-formed countenance was as white as ivory, relieved by the softest shade of the rose. Surprised and astonished, Medjeddin started back and said, "By the beard of the prophet, I conjure you to tell me whether you are of human race, or whether you belong to the genii?"
"I am a helpless maiden," said she, "and implore you to deliver me from the hands of this cruel magician; I will reward you handsomely for it: know, I am the only daughter of Omar, king of Zanguebar; and this wicked enchanter has cunningly carried me off from my father's palace, and shut me up in this cage. He has one son, as ugly as night, whom he wishes me to take for my husband. Every ninth day he comes, brings his son with him, and praises his excellent qualities. This he has done regularly for many months past, tormenting me at every visit for my consent to this odious union; and he now threatens me with cruel tortures if I give it not by the next new moon. On that day he will have kept me a year in imprisonment, and longer than a year he says he will not continue to entreat: then will the time of my punishment begin; I conjure you therefore to help me." At these words she burst into a flood of tears.
"Noble maiden," answered Medjeddin, "how willingly would I free you! but, alas, I am as helpless as yourself, and cannot even free myself. But tell me how is it? you say the enchanter brings his hateful son with him—why, then, have I never seen him?"
"He always sends you away when he comes," answered the princess.
"But even then," pursued Medjeddin, "the son could not conceal himself from me on the stairs, or in the narrow passage."
"Quite true," she answered, "but he carries him in his pocket."
"What," exclaimed Medjeddin in astonishment, "in his pocket!—how can that be?"
The princess informed him that the young man became on the occasion of each visit a white bird, like herself: that the enchanter put him into the cage with her, and that she felt such a dislike to him that she always fluttered about the cage to avoid getting near him; but that he, with the pertinacious obstinacy of a brutal affection, would follow her and settle confidingly near her. "You must," she continued, "have remarked how tired and mournful I always was on the ninth day when you returned."
Medjeddin, astonished at this explanation, assured her of his willingness to free her, but bewailed his helplessness. The princess, however, would not give up hopes of their success. "It seems to me," said she, "a good omen that the enchanter has to-day received a message which caused him to leave so early, and in such haste that he did not securely close the cage, and that you returned so early to-day from the garden; this day is my birthday, the only day I can be delivered from the magician's power; on any other day I should still have remained a dumb bird, even if you had freed me from my cage; only on this day has my touching the floor had power to restore me to my natural form; the enchantment lies in the cage."
Medjeddin instantly seized the cage, exclaiming, "If it be so, we will break the enchantment." He threw the cage to the ground, stamped on it with his feet till it was quite flat, and its shape no longer distinguishable, then he rolled it together, and threw it into a corner of the hall.
At this moment a frightful noise like thunder resounded through the air. The whole building shook as with a furious tempest, the doors flew open with a crash, the curtains were drawn aside, and the magician stood before them with a countenance full of anger. "Ah," cried he, "weak worms, what have you presumed to do? how did you learn to break my charm in this manner? who bid you destroy the cage?"
Medjeddin was so terrified he could answer nothing. The enchanter then turned to the maiden and cried, "And you, you thought this miserable worm could defend you against my power: I will show you how useless it is to oppose me."
He felt in the pocket of his black robe, and pulled out thence a small box; this he opened, and a white bird flew out and perched on the table. He then took a smaller box from his girdle and opened it,—it was filled with grains of millet; from these he took one, and laid it before the bird, who had scarcely eaten it before such a distorted man stood in its place, that both Medjeddin and the princess screamed aloud. His head was large and thick, his eyes red and dark, his nose small and quite flat, his lips thick and blueish red, his chin broad and projecting, and on his head grew a few stiff white hairs; a hump grew out in front, and a similar one behind; his shoulders were quite drawn up, and his head so jammed between them that his ears could not be seen. The upper part of his body was so unwieldy, and his legs so weak and thin that it was wonderful how they supported him; he tottered about incessantly, balancing himself first on one leg, then on the other.
"Come forward, my son," said the enchanter to this deformed creature; "behold, there is your bride; she does not wish to wait till the new moon which I fixed upon for your betrothal: to-day she has effected her own change by the help of this friend. Go, my son, give your bride a kiss, and then thank this young man."
The deformed creature approached the princess with a horrible fiendish laugh; she averted her face with disgust, and stretched out her arms to motion him away. But by this time Medjeddin's courage had returned: resolving to venture all, he stepped before the princess and gave the deformity such a blow that he reeled and fell backwards. His head struck in the fall on the corner of the pedestal of one of the marble pillars with such violence, that his skull was broken: a stream of blood flowed from the wound, and the monster gave a hollow groan. Medjeddin thought of nothing but the father's rage and revenge, and gave up his life for lost. But the enchanter stood quite confounded as he observed his son's mortal wound, and appeared stupified with horror and amazement. Presently he threw himself down beside him, examined the injury, and wrung his hands, forgetting his revenge in his sorrow. Medjeddin quickly seized the hand of the princess, and led her through the door and down the stairs: all the doors were open, and they found their way without any obstacle into the garden. Soon they stood before the grating of the iron gate, which was closed.
"Of what use is our flight?" said Medjeddin despondingly; "we are still as much as ever in the power of the enchanter; and even if we were on the other side of the gate, and concealed in the deepest cavern, he would discover us by his knowledge, and wreak his vengeance on us."
"I am of a different opinion," said the princess; "I know many of the things on which the superior power of this magician depends, and I believe that if we could only get out of this place, we should be safe."
They went on a little further, and came to a spot where a number of trees had been uprooted by the hurricane; one of these lay overturned with its summit resting on the top of the wall, and its boughs and branches hanging far over the other side. At this sight the young man rejoiced; he climbed quickly on to the trunk, pulling the princess after him, and guiding her with great care and tenderness into the top of the tree. They then clambered over the wall in spite of a formidable row of spikes, and let themselves down on the other side by the overhanging branches of the tree. These did not quite reach to the ground, but near enough for them to leap down; they let go accordingly, and fell gently to the earth; then jumping up, they proceeded as rapidly as the strength of the princess and the difficulties of the way would allow them, through thickets, underwood, and plains studded with prickly plants, towards the distant mountains.
After the two fugitives had continued their flight for several hours without looking back on the scene of their imprisonment, the princess felt her strength exhausted, and that she could go no further; she begged her companion, therefore, to stop and rest for a short time. Medjeddin sought a place free from bushes, and clad with moss and long grass; they seated themselves there, and Medjeddin entreated the princess to relate her history. She was too much exhausted at first, but after a short pause recovered her strength and commenced thus:
"My early history is very simple. I am called Jasmin, the only daughter of the sultan of Zanguebar. My mother was brought over the wide-stretching sea, from beyond Arabia and Mount Caucasus, and was sold to him as a slave. Soon attracted by her beauty and manners, he raised her to the dignity of wife. My earliest youth was spent in happy sports under my mother's eyes, who died, however, before I had passed the age of childhood, as the change from the mild climate of her land to the heat of my father's shortened her days. My father loved me as his greatest treasure, and confided me to a careful nurse. Every evening I passed several hours with him, as soon as he was released from the cares of government, and one whole day in each week he devoted to conversation with me. On that day we always went together in a light bark to a neighbouring promontory, where he had a beautiful palace and gardens. The air there was cooler and more refreshing, the trees and shrubs were clothed with fresher green than in the shut-up garden in the capital, and we passed the whole day in the open air. In the mean time I had outgrown childhood, and was beloved by a prince, the son of a neighbouring king, to whom I was betrothed, and who was to succeed my father in his kingdom. This prince, whose name was Mundiana Mesoud, often accompanied us in these visits to the castle on the promontory.
"It happened one day, as we were sitting on a terrace by the sea, that a foreign ship anchored just below us. A stranger caused himself to be landed in a little boat, and asked us permission to appear before us, as he had many costly wares to offer for sale. I was desirous to see his wares, and begged my father to admit him. The man laid many costly trinkets of gold and precious stones before us; and my father bought some which pleased me the most. I remarked that the merchant watched me closely, but he did this with such evident pleasure that my vanity ascribed it to his admiration of my charms, and found no harm in it. Whilst he showed his goods, he let fall some words which intimated that he had left his most precious articles behind in the ship; he had there, he said, many curious birds, particularly a snow-white bird which was the most beautiful of all creatures of this kind. He managed thus to excite my curiosity so much that I begged my father to allow me to go with the stranger to his ship to see these rarities. My father was weak enough to comply with this unreasonable wish. A suitable train ought to have accompanied me, but the stranger prevented this; he said his boat had only room in it for three people, and that he should not like to show his wares if many strangers came into his ship. 'They are only things fit for the royal princess,' he said; 'there is no fear that I should expose her to danger. I can never forget that a powerful king has entrusted his only daughter to my care. However, the prince may accompany you as a watchful protector.' We accompanied the merchant to the ship; there we found an immense number of extraordinary things and unknown animals. In the place where in other ships the rowers sat, were great apes; on high on the mast sat an eagle; in the cabins were many large and small cages of smooth ebony with thick gold bars, behind which moved a confused multitude of animals.
"My desire was now directed to the snow-white bird, about which I made inquiry. He showed it me high up in a sort of box; and as I could not see it distinctly, he took it out and placed it in my hand. 'The most wonderful circumstance,' said he, 'connected with this bird is, that, being a native of a far distant country, when removed to this it can only remain a few days alive, but I have found the corn of life of which I give it some grains each week, and it is then refreshed for nine days.' We asked for the corn of life, of which we had never heard; and he opened a little box and took out three grains. He gave me one to give the bird, the other I was to try, and the third prince Mesoud. When I offered the grain to the bird, it refused it; and when I pressed my hand closer, drew back, lost its balance and fell down with outspread wings. I hastened to it, picked it up perhaps somewhat roughly, and as it tried to escape, I held some of its tail-feathers fast, so that it lay fluttering in my hand. I was very much frightened, and the merchant seemed so also. He soon laughed, however, with a sort of malicious joy, and said that I should swallow the corn, because it would prevent the flight of the frightened prisoner; he said the same to the prince; and we swallowed the grains at the same moment. I felt a wonderful transformation pass over me, and found that I was changed into a snow-white bird; and when I looked towards the prince, in his stead I saw a black bird. Upon this the stranger, who was no other than the enchanter, seized me, and shut me up in the golden cage which you have trodden to pieces. The apes began to ply the oars, and the ship moved with unusual swiftness over the sea. I still saw my father and the attendants on the terrace, and could distinguish their gestures of wonder as they saw the ship depart; I believed even that I heard their voices calling us back. But what could I do in my cage? The black bird flew to the promontory; and from that moment I have neither heard nor seen any thing of prince Mesoud.
"When my home was far in the distance, and even the summit of the mountains which overhung it could no longer be distinguished, the enchanter rose with my cage high in the air, leaving his ship behind, and bore me into the hall of the tower. How he brought the other white bird, I do not know; I only know that he took it out of his pocket and put it into the cage. 'Now you have a companion,' said he. As I took him for a real bird, I considered myself, though unfortunate, superior to him, and drew myself back into a corner. But the bird came nearer and followed me round the cage. At last I lost patience, and pecked his eyes. When the enchanter saw this, he took out a little box and took from it a grain which he laid before the bird, who picked it up immediately. It was then changed into a man, the same ugly wretch you saw in the tower. He desired me, as I have already told you, to take that deformity for my husband; and promised me that, on my consent, I should be immediately restored to my proper form, and assured me that otherwise I should always remain as a bird, except on my birthday. It was also part of my enchantment to be obliged to allure you here. I have now no other wish than to return to my father in Zanguebar, because I know he is living in great affliction."
This relation vividly reminded Medjeddin of his own father; he knew, from the great love he had always shown him, that he must have pined for his loss, and his mournful countenance and bowed-down form presented themselves before his mind. "Princess," said he, "your desire cannot be greater than mine. Still, I swear to you, that I will not return to my father till I have safely conducted you to your native land, or have seen you safe into the hands of those who will bring you to your father; if I do not, may Heaven not grant my father life to receive this joy!"
They journeyed on with renewed vigour. But evening was drawing near, and it was necessary to find a resting-place for the night; fortune was favourable; they soon found a nook overhung by a large and lofty bush. Medjeddin broke away the boughs, so as to form a hedge which fenced round a small spot in which he concealed the princess, leaving only a narrow entrance, before which he lay down to watch. Night passed without danger. However anxiously Medjeddin strove against sleep in order to watch over his companion, it at last weighed down his eyelids; and they both awoke with the first rays of the sun. They wandered the whole day, resting occasionally; at every step the journey became more hazardous; the thickets became thicker and higher; they were often obliged to creep between the boughs, and their clothes hung in rags. On the fourth day they reached the foot of the mountains. There they found cultivated land and human habitations. Medjeddin inquired where they were, and asked the way to the sea. The people told them the name of the country, which was unknown to Medjeddin and to the princess Jasmin, and added, that on the other side of the high mountains lay a large flat land, bordering on the sea. They received this information with great joy, and, tired and footsore as they were, addressed themselves, without loss of time, to the task of crossing the mountains, and at last, after a wearisome journey, during which they had seen the sun rise and set seven times, they arrived at the flat country and the sea-coast of which they had been told. A ship lay ready at anchor; and when they inquired its destination, the steersman answered, "We are going to Zanguebar, to fetch a cargo of cinnamon." To Medjeddin's question where they came from, and the name of the land where they were, he received for answer, "that the ship belonged to a merchant of Balsora, and that it had been cast on these unknown shores by a violent storm."
When the princess perceived that the ship was going towards her native land, she was very much rejoiced. She took one of the precious stones out of the fillet on her forehead, and gave it for the passage money of herself and her companion. The following morning they weighed anchor, and, after a prosperous voyage, reached the very same place where the enchanter's ship had formerly lain at anchor, when he carried off the princess.
They were landed in a small boat, and Jasmin led her deliverer through the beautiful leafy walks of the imperial gardens. In this way they came to a terrace, from which they could see the ship. Instead of pressing hastily forwards, they concealed themselves behind a bush, for on the terrace sat a venerable and noble-looking man, with the profoundest melancholy stamped on his features; he was looking seawards, and the vessel had just caught his eye; a flood of tears ran down his face, "Ah!" cried he, "it was just so on the day that my sorrows began! There lay the ship of the robber; there landed the boat which carried away my beloved daughter and her betrothed. It was even at the same hour of the day. I have sent messengers into all the neighbouring lands; I have caused the opposite sea-coasts to be searched; but all has been in vain. I must die, and never see my child again."
He pronounced these words aloud, and covered his face, as he bowed himself forward on his hands.
The princess Jasmin was rushing towards him, but Medjeddin held her back, and said, "Let me first prepare him for your arrival, for otherwise joy may kill him." And he came forward, and bowed himself before the sorrowing old man.
The king then said, "Who are you? Are you a beggar, and do you need any gift? It shall be given you; go to my palace."
Medjeddin stood up and answered, "From my appearance, you might well take me for a beggar, O great king Omar. But know that under these ragged clothes is concealed a magician, who is able to change your tears into smiles, your sobs into transports of joy."
"Can any man on earth do this?" asked Omar.
"I have only to speak three words," answered the other, "and it will happen. Are you strong enough to support the highest joy that your heart can feel or conceive?"
At these questions, a ray of hope kindled in the soul of the mourning father. "What is it? Who are you who can promise this?" asked he; and, on Medjeddin repeating his question, he answered, "I think so," regarding him, at the same time, with eager looks.
"Approach, princess Jasmin," cried the youth; and she sprang forward into her father's open arms.
Medjeddin's promise was indeed fulfilled; the aged monarch's tears were changed into smiles of joy. Their embrace continued long. At last Omar raised himself, beckoned Medjeddin to approach, and said, "You are indeed a magician such as I have never seen before. By your words you have changed the mournful course of my life into the brightest sunshine. I will not now ask you who you are, and what I have to thank you for, nor inquire what chance brought you to my daughter; I shall only give myself up to joy at her return."
They went back to the capital in the king's barge, and soon the joyful news of the unexpected reappearance of the princess spread every where. Crowds assembled at the palace to ascertain if the news were true, and the princess at length went out of the principal gate of the palace, and showed herself at the head of the flight of steps which led up to it. Then arose a shout of joy from ten thousand voices, and loud wishes for her health and happiness.
The next day, after the king had heard from his daughter the history of her imprisonment, and of the devotion with which Medjeddin had watched over her and when Medjeddin had in turn narrated his history Omar became very thoughtful, and caused his council to assemble, to deliberate how they should reward him. "If he were not so young," said some of them "he might be made grand vizier, the next in dignity to the king, or be appointed governor of a province. But his youth prevents his being placed over the people next to the king."
After longer consultation, the eldest of the councillors rose, and said, "Omar, my king and lord, the youth has certainly performed a great service to you and the princess Jasmin; it seems to me, therefore, that his reward ought to come from you. It is fitting that the king, having received from him a great benefit in his family, should reward him from his family. Were I in such a case, I would constitute him Mundiana, and give him for a wife the daughter whom he has restored."
The whole assembly were of the same opinion, and the king gave them to understand that this was also his wish. "I am old," said he, "and can easily perceive that the cares of this land will soon need other hands to support them. I shall be much pleased to see my daughter with so good a husband. The prince Mundiana Mesoud, whom I had before chosen, has disappeared; and this youth, although of lower birth, is of noble soul, and will soon, under my guidance, acquire the necessary experience to enable him to promote justice and order in my kingdom."
He did not delay, but immediately caused Medjeddin to be called. A costly band of gold and silver was fastened round his forehead, and the king then said, "I herewith appoint you Mundiana;" and the assembled councillors immediately added their congratulations.
Medjeddin expressed his gratitude in becoming terms, but inquired, smiling, what was the precise nature of the dignity conferred on him.
The eldest councillor stepped forward and said, "This name points out the highest post of honour which the king can bestow. You are found worthy of this honour, and no other lives who bears the title, because the Mundiana Prince Mesoud has disappeared."
An elephant covered with costly trappings was now brought in by its keeper, and upon it was a richly ornamented seat. On this the new officer was placed, and led through the streets. Heralds went before him, and cried aloud, "Listen to what Omar makes known to all people. This youth has restored to him his dearest jewel, which he had lost. In gratitude, the king has nominated him Mundiana, and has appointed his daughter Jasmin for his wife. To-morrow the betrothal will be celebrated; and every body is invited to the court of the palace to partake of the general joy."
Medjeddin hardly knew how all this had come about. He had received clothes and rich arms as a present from the king, and the king so highly favoured him, that he was not only to be husband of the princess Jasmin, but was to succeed Omar on the throne, and to reign over that beautiful and rich land. In his happiness he forgot his early life, his father's sorrow, and even his playfellow Maryam and his father's faithful friend Salek, and thought no more of his home or his father-land. The next day his betrothal with the princess was celebrated with great pomp.
The princess had willingly yielded to her father's wish, without manifesting any particular joy, although, she felt a very sincere friendship for her intended husband, and treated him with great respect and attention, as she did not forget in her prosperity how much she had owed to him in the time of misfortune. The first days and weeks after the ceremony of betrothal were devoted to recreation and amusement, after which he was formally introduced by the king to the council, and instructed in the business of the state. The king and councillors had soon reason to wonder at the acuteness of his judgment in difficult cases, and above all, at his quick perception of right and order. Throughout the country, the justice and wisdom of the king's future son-in-law were praised, and it was hoped that fortune would permit him to rule over the land. A whole year had now elapsed, and the day was fast approaching when he was to marry the princess and ascend the throne. One day, as usual, he sought his betrothed, the princess Jasmin, in her apartments. He happened to enter very rapidly after his announcement by the attendant, and saw the princess hastily wiping her eyes; and as he drew nearer, he perceived the traces of her tears. Sympathising with her, he asked the cause of her grief; she tried to avoid answering him, but as he continued to urge her, she at last said, "I dare tell you why these tears flow, because you are good and compassionate, and will not consider it a crime that I have a feeling and constant heart. You know that I was formerly beloved by prince Mesoud, the son of the neighbouring king; I related to you that this prince was changed into a black bird by the enchanter, and flew from the ship to the promontory of the island where our country seat was situated. Now I must tell you that I grieve so much the more about this prince's fate, as from my own change I can compassionate his mournful condition. I could not repress the desire to ascertain his fate, and I have obtained certain news of his present condition, by the secret knowledge of a certain wise man. I have learned that he still lives in his new form, and that he has flown away, from fear of the machinations of the demon hunter, called among us Dolda Waldas, and is now in far distant regions; and that it is ordained by fate that he shall never regain his human form if I give my hand to another husband. Sorrow at his mournful destiny has drawn these tears from my eyes, the traces of which you observed."
This narrative made a deep impression on Medjeddin; he discovered that Jasmin had acceded to her father's wish only from gratitude and filial obedience, whilst her affections were still fixed on the absent prince. He saw that he could purchase the good fortune of being the husband of the noble princess, and son-in-law of the great king Omar, and after him king of Zanguebar, only by the misfortunes of prince Mesoud. He asked himself if this were right, and was obliged to confess that justice and honour were opposed to it. He saw that the intoxication of good fortune had hitherto blinded him. Then the remembrance of his father came before him, and his imagination pictured him pining away at the uncertainty of his son's fate. He bitterly reproached himself for his long forgetfulness, and for not having sent an embassy to announce his safe arrival in Zanguebar. Scarcely had these thoughts and feelings arisen in his breast, than he made up his mind: he went to the king, told him all, and begged him to let him go and fulfil a son's duty to a father whom he had too long neglected. Omar sighed deeply at these disclosures of his expected son-in-law; he proposed to send a ship to bring his father, so that he might spend the rest of his life in sharing his son's good fortune and companionship. Upon this Medjeddin declared to him, with determination, that he could never be his son-in-law or successor to the throne. "I cannot purchase such good fortune at another's expense," said he; "it was otherwise before I knew the decision of fate; but now that I know that the prince Mesoud must, through my happiness, always remain in his present condition, if I thus take away the possibility of his ever returning to his human form, I should be in the highest degree culpable, if I did not voluntarily give up my good fortune."
All the persuasions and arguments of Omar were useless. The councillors also, and the grand vizier and the governors of the provinces, begged him to continue in the land, and to take still more share in the government. He remained firm in his resolution; he promised the princess, who was astonished at his honourable spirit, that, as soon as he had seen and comforted his father, he would seek information about prince Mesoud from all the sages and magicians of his native land, and that he would try all means to restore him to his former condition. As he was determined to set out, the king gave him costly presents, including many precious stones from his treasury, and provided him with a ship, and all necessaries for the voyage.
The heavens seemed to favour the resolution of the returning son: the finest weather and most favourable winds seconded his journey, and the ship anchored in the harbour without accident. He took some servants, bought some camels, which he loaded with the king's presents, and so went through Balsora along the river to Bagdad. One beautiful evening he came near the city, and recognised the very place where he had lain at the feet of his father and Salek, and listened to their conversation; their last discourse there returned to his memory. "Well," said he to himself, "my own experience has indeed proved how true it is that it is easy for a man to be seduced from virtue into one false step, if he be not watchful, but relies on his own power: I thought that my heart was sure to be always right, and neglected the practice of weighing carefully each action beforehand. In this manner have I so much forgotten my love for my father, and had nearly committed a great wrong, having been about to sacrifice to my vanity, in the intoxication of good fortune, the happiness of the princess and her betrothed. And you, my father, were also right when you maintained that a heart accustomed to virtue from early years would only for a short time wander from the right road. I have myself experienced the truth of these words, and I therefore thank you with tears that you brought me up to what was good." As he spoke, he espied a small solitary hut where the palm-trees used to stand. A venerable man, much marked by sorrow, appeared at the door; he stood still before the threshold, and regarded the youth with astonishment; the young man gazed earnestly at him. Then suddenly recognising the features of the old man, he threw himself on his knees before him, seized his hand, and covered it with kisses.
"My father," cried he, "is it so indeed? have you become so much altered in the course of so few years? that is my fault. Father, forgive your offending son, who forgot you in the height of prosperity."
El Kattab extended his other hand to him, blessed him, and said: "Rise up, my son, rise; he who feels repentance is forgiven." He rose and threw himself into his father's arms.
When he looked up again, he saw a man approaching, accompanied by a maiden, whose features he recognised. It was Salek and his daughter Maryam, Medjeddin's playfellow. After welcoming him, they sat down, and Medjeddin related to them all that had happened to him since the memorable evening. He related, truly and candidly, how he had forgotten his father, and nearly fallen into greater crimes, because he had been blinded by fortune, by greatness, and by honours. As they were sitting and conversing, they observed three birds coming up from a distance, and who seemed to be chasing one another. They soon perceived that one of them was a black bird flying in great fright from a large hawk. It was obvious that the hawk would soon have seized his prey, had he not been pursued in turn by a larger bird, to avoid which, he was often compelled to dart from side to side: at last they came to close conflict. The pursued black bird fell into Medjeddin's lap; the hawk, struck by his pursuer, fell to the ground at their feet, and was, by the strong hooked bill and sharp claws of his adversary, soon killed and torn to pieces. Scarcely had this taken place, when the conqueror changed into a venerable-looking sage. He turned to Medjeddin, who was quite astonished, and said: "Dip quickly your forefinger in the blood of this slain bird, and anoint with it the beak of the black one."
Medjeddin obeyed immediately; and scarcely had he touched the black bird's beak with the blood, ere it was transformed, and a handsome youth in kingly dress stood before them.
"Guess who this is," said the genius.
"The prince Mesoud?" asked Medjeddin.
The genius answered, "It is he!" And as he stood looking at the young prince with astonishment, added, "You do not perceive how and why all this has happened. I could explain to you all these mysteries; but to what purpose? It is not necessary for weak men to know the threads by which their fates are linked together: suffice it to know that it was necessary for you to perform all this, that you might be tried: you are found worthy, and Heaven rewards you with Maryam, the early companion of your youth, now to be your wife."
Then Medjeddin turned towards Maryam, and looked inquiringly at Salek, her father. This latter said, "With joy I listen to the will of fate; the highest wish of my heart will now be fulfilled."
"Know," continued the genius, "that the slain bird was the enchanter who transformed the princess Jasmin and the prince Mesoud. They were also to pass through trials; thus it was decreed by fate. Because the enchanter only fulfilled the will of fate from selfish motives, and carried his revenge beyond it, and contrary to it, the king of the genii commanded me to slay him."
With these words he disappeared from their sight. They returned now in happy union to the city; and El Kattab, who had built his hut at the edge of the wood to be always near the place of his sorrow, dwelt again in his house with his children. The prince proceeded to Zanguebar in the same ship that had brought Medjeddin. He was received there with great joy, and was soon married to his early love. But Medjeddin's name lived long in their memory, and in that of all the inhabitants of that island.
When the caliph Haroun al Raschid heard of Medjeddin's return, he had him called before him, and made him relate his history. The caliph was so pleased with him that he took him into his palace, and gave him an important post in his court. His history he caused to be inscribed in the records of his kingdom. And when Giafar, his aged vizier, expressed a wish to end his life in quietness, the caliph raised Medjeddin to the grand viziership; and he continued long in this office, to the pleasure of his friends and the happiness of the people, by whom he was greatly beloved.