"With joy at winning forgiveness, perhaps," stammered Fatkoura.
"You need not remain for the feast if you are not well."
"I thank you," said Fatkoura, bending low, as she moved away and was lost in the crowd.
The notes of a hidden orchestra were soon heard, and the entertainment began.
A curtain was drawn aside in the wall opposite the throne, and revealed a charming landscape.
Mount Fusiyama appeared in the background, rearing its snow-sprinkled peak above a necklace of clouds; the sea, of a deep blue, dotted with a few white sails, lay at the foot of the mountains: a road wound along among trees and thickets of flowering shrubs.
Then a young man entered; he hung his head; he seemed tired and sad. The orchestra was silent. The young man lifted up his voice. He told how misfortune had pursued him. His mother died of grief because the fields cultivated by her husband grew more and more sterile. He followed his mother's coffin with tears, then almost killed himself with work to support his aged father; but the father died in his turn, leaving his son so destitute, that he had not money enough to bury him. He then sold himself as a slave, and with the price of his liberty paid the last marks of respect to his father. Now he was on his way to his master to comply with the terms of the contract. He was going off, when a most beautiful woman appeared in his path. The young man gazed at her in mute admiration.
"I have a favor to beg of you," said the woman. "I am alone and forsaken; accept me for your wife: I will be devoted and faithful to you."
"Alas!" said the young man, "I have not a single possession, and even my body is not my own. I have sold myself to a master, to whom I am now on my way."
"I am skilled in the art of weaving silk," said the unknown; "take me to your master; I will manage to make myself useful."