“Whence comest thou?” asked the Master. “Thou art fortunate in being so happy.”
“From Tisbon,” said the peasant. “And why should I not be happy when all the world is rejoicing?”
“What has happened?”
“Dost thou not know that in town the wedding has already been going on for seven days and seven nights? The wine is flowing in rivers, and there is no limit to the dainty fare. They are eating, drinking, and making merry. The whole town resounds with the strains of music, and the feet of the dancers are never weary. I also came in for my share of good things—I ate and drank as much as I could, and now I am taking home what will be enough for my wife and children for many weeks.”
“Whose wedding is it?”
“The King’s.”
“To whom is he married?”
“To Anoush.”
The Master spoke no more. He only started as one struck by lightning, then remained motionless. Then he rose and walked with weak, trembling steps towards the palace he had created. He looked around, and for the last time raised his sorrowful eyes to all the work that was the result of passionate love and beautiful Art. Then he entered into his work-room. His tools were lying about. He took up a heavy hammer and came out on to the narrow ledge. “She deceived me!” he said, and threw the hammer up into the air. It turned over and over, then fell on to his head. His warm blood sprinkled the wonders that were the work of his hands.
Farhat did not obtain the desire of his heart, but the name of his beloved Anoush remained with that stone fortress, and it was called the Castle of Anoush.