"Cease, Aswad, to yield to a needless affliction. You are mistaken; your merits are such that it would be wrong to keep you longer in the dark. I am Zelica herself, and not her slave. That night when you came to my apartment I personated Cale-Cairi, and you supposed my attendant to be myself."
Zelica then called one of her women, who ran to her from amidst some cypress trees where she was concealed, and I perceived that she was the slave whom I supposed to be the princess of Persia.
"Aswad," said the princess to me, "you now see the true Cale-Cairi; I give her back her name and take my own: I have no wish to disguise myself any longer. Although your love is greater than your ambition, I am certain that it will be a source of new pleasure to you to know that the lady who loves you is a princess."
We passed nearly the whole night in walking about and conversing, and daylight would no doubt have found us in the gardens, had not Cale-Cairi, who was with us, taken care to inform us that it was time to withdraw. It was needful then that we should separate, but before I parted from Zelica the princess said to me:
"Adieu, Aswad! do not forget me. We shall see each other again, and I will soon let you know how dear you are to me." I threw myself at her feet to thank her for so flattering a promise, after which Cale-Cairi took me out by the same winding passages as before, and I then left the seraglio.
Beloved by the august princess whom I idolized, and forming an enchanting image of what she had promised me, I abandoned myself to the most pleasing fancies that the mind could depict, when an unlooked-for event deprived me all on a sudden of my proud hopes. I had heard a report that the princess Zelica was ill, and two days afterwards the rumour of her death was circulated in the palace. I was unwilling to give credit to this fatal intelligence, and refused to do so until I saw preparations going for the funeral ceremony. I did not see the whole of it, because excessive grief threw me into a succession of dangerous fainting fits which lasted for a long time. One of the officers of the palace gave directions for me to be carried into the pages' room, where great care was taken of me; my limbs were rubbed with a balm of exceeding virtue, and in spite of my overwhelming misery, such was the progress I made, that in two days my strength was restored. A stay in Schiras, however, having become insupportable, I secretly left the court of Persia three days after the interment of my beloved princess. Overwhelmed with grief, I walked all night without knowing whither I was going or where I ought to go. Next morning, having stopped to rest myself, a young man approached who was dressed in a very extraordinary manner. Coming up to me he saluted me and presented me with a green branch which he held in his hand, and after having civilly made me accept it, he began to recite some Persian verses to induce me to bestow my charity upon him. As I had no money I could not give him any. Thinking that I was ignorant of the Persian language he recited some Arabic verses, but seeing that he had no better success this way than the other, and that I did not do what he wanted, he said to me, "Brother, I cannot persuade myself that you are deficient in charity, but rather in the means wherewith to exercise it."
"You are right," I said, "I have not a farthing in the world, and I know not even where to shelter my head."
"Unfortunate man," he exclaimed, "what a sad plight you are in; I really pity you, and wish, moreover, to assist you."
I was not a little astonished to be thus addressed by a man who had been asking alms of me a moment before, and I supposed that the assistance he offered was merely that of his prayers, when he went on to say:
"I am one of those merry fellows they call fakirs; and I can tell you, that though we subsist entirely on charity, we fare none the less sumptuously for that, as we have discovered the secret of exciting the compassion of well-meaning people by an appearance of mortification and penance which we well know how to impart to ourselves. It is true there are a few fakirs fools enough to be really what they seem, and who lead a life of such austerity as sometimes to go ten whole days without the least nourishment. But we are a little less rigorous than these ascetics; we make no pretensions to the reality of their virtues, only to the appearance of them. Will you become one of our fraternity? I am now on my way to meet two of them at Bost; if you have a fancy to make the fourth, you have but to follow me."