At the hour appointed, the Armenian physician despatched the Jewish doctor to the Bey's gates, where he was admitted, and received with as much respect as the Turk could bring his mind to show towards unbelievers, and the business being properly premised, the father told the Jew how his daughter was affected, and asked if he might hope for her recovery.
"With great care and cunning skill, perhaps so," said the Jew, from out his overgrown beard.
"If this can be accomplished through thy means, I make thee rich for life," said the Bey.
"We can but try," said the Jew, "and hope for the best. Lead me to thy daughter."
The Bey conducted the leech to his daughter's apartment, and bidding her tell freely all her pains and ills, left the Jew to study her case, while he retired once more to silent converse with himself.
"You are ill," said the Jew, addressing Zillah, while he seated himself and rested his head upon his staff.
"Yes, I am indeed."
"And yet methinks no physical harm is visible in thy person. The pain is in the heart?"
"You speak truly," said Zillah, with a sigh—"I am very unhappy."
"You love?"