'He expected me. I gave him the letter, and he asked me if no one had understood whom I had in charge. "No one," I replied, "and now that I have performed my duty, give me a receipt for my prisoner." "Not yet," he said; "you have to attend at the execution; afterwards I will give you your receipt."
'He called a handsome young Turk whom he had in his service, and tried to win him over by flatteries and a bribe. He further said, "I will look out for some good berth for you. But you must do something for me. Take this silk handkerchief, and go downstairs with this officer. He will conduct you into a room where you will find a young woman who does much harm to believers, turning their feet from the way of Muḥammad. Strangle her with this handkerchief. By so doing you will render an immense service to God, and I will give you a large reward."
'The valet bowed and went out with me. I conducted him to the room where I had left my prisoner. I found her prostrate and praying. The young man approached her with the view of executing his orders. Then she raised her head, looked fixedly at him and said, "Oh, young man, it would ill beseem you to soil your hand with this murder."
'I cannot tell what passed in this young man's soul. But it is a fact that he fled like a madman. I ran too, and we came together to the serdar, to whom he declared that it was impossible for him to do what was required. "I shall lose your patronage," he said. "I am, indeed, no longer my own master; do what you will with me, but I will not touch this woman."
'Aziz Khan packed him off, and reflected for some minutes. He then sent for one of his horsemen whom, as a punishment for misconduct, he had put to serve in the kitchens. When he came in, the serdar gave him a friendly scolding: "Well, son of a dog, bandit that you are, has your punishment been a lesson to you? and will you be worthy to regain my affection? I think so. Here, take this large glass of brandy, swallow it down, and make up for going so long without it." Then he gave him a fresh handkerchief, and repeated the order which he had already given to the young Turk.
'We entered the chamber together, and immediately the man rushed upon Ḳurratu'l 'Ayn, and tied the handkerchief several times round her neck. Unable to breathe, she fell to the ground in a faint; he then knelt with one knee on her back, and drew the handkerchief with might and main. As his feelings were stirred and he was afraid, he did not leave her time to breathe her last. He took her up in his arms, and carried her out to a dry well, into which he threw her still alive. There was no time to lose, for daybreak was at hand. So we called some men to help us fill up the well.'
Mons. Nicolas, formerly interpreter of the French Legation at Tihran, to whom we are indebted for this narrative, adds that a pious hand planted five or six solitary trees to mark the spot where the heroine gave up this life for a better one. It is doubtful whether the ruthless modern builder has spared them.
The internal evidence in favour of this story is very strong; there is a striking verisimilitude about it. The execution of a woman to whom so much romantic interest attached cannot have been in the royal square; that would have been to court unpopularity for the Government. Moreover, there is a want of definite evidence that women were among the public victims of the 'reign of Terror' which followed the attempt on the Shah's life (cp. TN, p. 334). That Ḳurratu'l 'Ayn was put to death is certain, but this can hardly have been in public. It is true, a European doctor, quoted by Prof. Browne (TN, p. 313), declares that he witnessed the heroic death of the 'beautiful woman.' He seems to imply that the death was accompanied by slow tortures. But why does not this doctor give details? Is he not drawing upon his fancy? Let us not make the persecutors worse than they were.
Count Gobineau's informant appears to me too imaginative, but I will give his statements in a somewhat shortened form.
'The beauty, eloquence, and enthusiasm of Ḳurratu'l 'Ayn exercised a fascination even upon her gaoler. One morning, returning from the royal camp, he went into the enderūn, and told his prisoner that he brought her good news. "I know it," she answered gaily; "you need not be at the pains to tell me." "You cannot possibly know my news," said the Ḳalantar; "it is a request from the Prime Minister. You will be conducted to Niyavaran, and asked, 'Ḳurratu'l 'Ayn, are you a Bābī?' You will simply answer, 'No.' You will live alone for some time, and avoid giving people anything to talk about. The Prime Minister will keep his own opinion about you, but he will not exact more of you than this."'