Quite startled, Daimur turned sharply around and looked behind him. There was no one in sight. He looked into the branches of the tree against which he was leaning, thinking it might have been the voice of a dove, but there was nothing to be seen. But he noticed that the leaves of the tree were dropping, and what was still more strange on that island, it was a laurel tree, and not a fruit tree.
"Tasmir," he murmured in a low tone, "where are you?"
"I am here," came the voice again, "in this tree, and more dead than alive."
Immediately Daimur put on his spectacles, and standing back looked at the tree. He could see imprisoned in the center of the trunk a young man with a pale, thin face. His eyes were wild and his hair long, and he looked back at Daimur with such a sad expression.
"Poor, poor fellow," said Daimur, "your plight is worse than your brother's. This is more of the Evil Magician's work."
"Yes, he has enchanted me, and I am slowly dying," answered Tasmir in a weak voice. "You can see that the leaves of my tree are dropping."
"What can I do to save you?" cried Daimur.
"You must make a hole in the side of the tree and let the sap run out. When it has all run away the tree will dry up in a day, and I will be able to break through the wood, as it will be brittle like dried-up egg shell. You will have to do it at once, however, as I cannot last much longer than another day. I am nearly drowned now with sap."
Daimur hastily drew out his knife, and finding a place where some bushes grew close against the tree he pulled them back and began cutting a hole in the bark. He worked for more than an hour before he had penetrated through to the pith. Then the sap burst forth and ran out in a stream, sinking into the earth at the root.
"It will not be dry until night," said the poor prisoner, "and then perhaps I will be able to break my way out."