“Very true,” replied the pacha; “Haroun Alraschid, if I recollect right, was very strict in his observances of the precepts of the Koran. After all, he was but a pastek—a water-melon. You may proceed, Menouni.”
The caliph, oppressed, as I before observed to your highness, with this fit of melancholy, despatched Mesrour for his chief vizier, Giaffar Bermuki, who, not unaccustomed to this nocturnal summons, speedily presented himself before the commander of the faithful. “Father of true believers! descendant of the Prophet!” said the minister, with a profound obeisance, “thy slave waits but to hear, and hears but to obey.”
“Giaffar,” replied the caliph, “I am overwhelmed with distressing inquietude, and would fain have thee devise some means for my relief. Speak—what sayest thou?”
“Hasten, O my prince, to thy favourite garden of the Tierbar, where, gazing on the bright moon, and listening to the voice of the bul-bul, you will await in pleasing contemplation the return of the sun.”
“Not so,” replied the caliph.
“By the beard of the Prophet! the caliph was right, and that Giaffar was a fool. I never heard that staring at the moon was an amusement before,” observed the pacha.
“Not so,” urged the caliph. “My gardens, my palaces, and my possessions, are no more to me a source of pleasure.”