Ibrahim had no sooner said these words, than he was seized by the officers of the cadi, and brought before Hussain. His grief can easily be conceived, when he heard the sentence of death. He entreated Hussain, in the name of their youthful friendship, to save his life.
“You yourself have violated our friendship,” replied the latter, coldly; “there are here witnesses of your words, and I cannot save you. All I can do is, to bring you to the Commander of the Faithful, who wishes to see the first violator of his proclamation, and to witness his execution.”
So far the old slave related. Ali was paralysed with horror; a messenger from the caliph first recalled him to consciousness. “Do you bring me his gray head?” asked Ali; “has the axe already dyed his thin silvery hair with blood?”
“I will bring you to your father,” replied the messenger. “The caliph has granted him permission to take leave of his son before he dies.”
“Is he still living?” cried Ali, and he hastened to the palace. On entering it, he saw the caliph sitting on his throne; while before him his father, with his hands tied behind him, was kneeling on a carpet. A silver basin stood near, and the executioner had already drawn his bright, sharp sword. Ali embraced his father.
“I cannot clasp you in my arms, my son,” said the old man, “but I die for your sake; parental fondness made my lips utter those words.”
“Untie his hands!” cried the caliph; “let him embrace his son before he dies.”
Ali threw himself at the caliph’s feet, and said, imploringly: “Restore me my father.”
“I pity your fate,” said Haroun al Raschid, with emotion, “but I have sworn that the blood of him who should revile my majesty and benevolence shall flow.”
“Oh! then there is hope of delivery,” cried Ali. “Am I not blood of my father’s blood? Let, then, my blood flow for his, that I may fall a sacrifice to your revenge, and that my death may release you from your oath.”