The adventure of Couloufe, in spite of the care Mouzaffer and his son had taken to keep it secret, made so much stir in Samarcand, that several people wished to see the two persons whom love had so strongly united; so that Couloufe and Dilara, exposed to the public curiosity, received fresh visits every day.

One day, a well-to-do looking man came to them, saying he was an officer of the king; that he had heard what had taken place at the cadi’s and that he came to assure them that he was interested in their cause; finally he offered them his services so cordially, and he persuaded them so well of his interest, that they thought they could not show him too much gratitude. They begged him to eat with them, and to show the extreme consideration they had for him, Dilara removed her veil, so that the officer, astonished at the lady’s beauty, could not help exclaiming, ‘Ah! my lord, I am not surprised at the firmness that you showed before the judge.’

They all sat down at a table covered with several dishes. There were all sorts of pilau, of vegetables flavoured with black and white pepper and fresh butter, of stews spiced with saffron, vinegar, and honey, many kinds of fish and a roast lamb, the tail of which stuffed with aro­matic herbs made an agreeable dish.

The slaves, after the repast, brought the finest old red wine of Shiraz, and the golden-yellow wine of Kishmish; then perfumes were handed round, and then, the lady having had a viola handed to her, began to play on it, singing a plaintive air. After that she asked for a lute, tuned it and played on it in a way that charmed the king’s officer; then she took a guitar, and played in that manner which is used to lament the absence of lovers.

It was a song she had composed at Caracoram after the disgrace of Couloufe. But she could not sing it without recalling to the mind of her lover scenes which saddened him. The young man fell into a profound reverie and soon began to weep bitterly.

The officer of the king was surprised at this and asked the cause of his tears.

‘Alas!’ replied the son of Abdallah, ‘what will it serve you to know the cause? It is not less useless to you to know it, than for me to tell it. I was just recalling to my memory my past misfortunes, and I cannot think of those which threaten me without being penetrated by the keenest grief.’

This reply did not at all satisfy the king’s officer: ‘Young stranger,’ he said, ‘in God’s name relate your adventures to me. It is not at all from curiosity that I wish to hear them, I feel disposed to help you, and perhaps you will not repent of having made me this confidence. Tell me who you are; I see you are not lacking in birth, speak and hide nothing from me.’

‘My lord,’ replied Couloufe, ‘my history is rather long and may weary you.’

‘No, no,’ said the officer, ‘I even beg you to suppress no detail.’

Then the son of Abdallah began the recital of his adventures; he admitted that he was not the son of Massaoud, and that he had had recourse to imposture to assure the possession of Dilara.

‘But,’ he added, ‘my falsehood has not had the whole effect I expected; they would not believe my word; they have sent a courier to Khokand who will be back in three days; thus the cadi, who is having us watched, will soon discover my deception, and will punish me by an infamous death. Death, however, does not afflict me; it is the approach of the fatal moment which must for ever separate me from the object of my love; this thought alone is the cause of all my grief.’

Whilst he was speaking thus, interrupted with sighs and tears, the lady in her turn melted into tears and sufficiently indicated by the grief which possessed her that her sentiments were the same as those of Couloufe.

The king’s officer did not see this spectacle without compassion.

‘Dear people,’ he said, ‘I am touched at your affliction. I would wish to be able to help you and prevent you both from drinking the poisoned cup of separation. Would to God, young man, that I might save you from the danger you run; but that seems to me very difficult. The cadi is vigilant and inflexible; his vigilance cannot be surprised, and he will not forgive you for having deceived him. All that I can advise you is to put your trust in God who knows how to open the most securely closed doors, and to remove the most insurmountable difficulties. Implore his aid by fervent prayers, and do not despair of coming happily out of this affair, although you see no chance of it.’

At these words the officer took leave of Couloufe and the lady, and retired.

‘It must be owned,’ then said the daughter of Boyruc, ‘that there are in the world some rather pecu­liar people. They come to offer you their services; if you appear to them distressed, they press you to relate your troubles to them, promising to relieve them, and when by their importunities they have forced you to satisfy their curiosity, all the consolation they give you is to exhort you to take patience. Who would not have thought, seeing this man enter with so much warmth into our interests, that he had the intention to be useful to us and to make at least every effort to serve us? However, after having listened to the tale of our adventures, he leaves us and abandons us to Providence.’

‘Madam,’ said the son of Abdallah, ‘what could he do for us? Let us do him more justice; he looks too like an honest man for it to be possible to suspect him of having from mere curiosity drawn from us the confidence of our misfortunes. No, no, he wanted to please us. I believe in the generous pity he has shown us, and which was apparent even in his silence; but when he saw the evil was irre­mediable, could he say to us other than what he did? And from whom could we indeed receive help? Heaven alone is capable of delivering me from the danger I am in.’

This unhappy couple harrowed each other in depicting all the horror of their destiny, and passed the next two days in groaning and lamenting. They thought, however, of means of escape; they tested the fidelity of their guards, but found them incorruptible.

Thus the fourth day arrived, the day on which the courier from Khokand was to return, which they feared as much as the son of Mouzaffer ardently wished for it.

As soon as the first rays of that terrible day came to light the apartment of Couloufe, the young man, thinking to see the light for the last time, rose to go to death. He looked at his wife with eyes in which were depicted grief and despair, and said to her in an almost inaudible voice: ‘Fare­well, I am going to fulfil my destiny, and carry my head to the cadi. As for you, beautiful Dilara live on, and think sometimes of a man who has so tenderly loved you.’

‘Ah! Couloufe,’ replied the lady, melting into tears, ‘you are going to die, and you exhort me to live! Do you think life can have any charm for me? Cruel man! you wish me then to drag out languishing and deplorable days? No, no, I wish to accompany you and descend with you into the tomb. Taher, the odious Taher, shall see what he loves perish with what he hates; he shall not have occasion to rejoice at your death. Why must you die? It is on me alone that the punish­ment should fall; it is for me, your wife, who made you a perjurer and suggested to you the lie which they wish your death to expiate, it is for me there­fore to serve as victim; it is just at least that I should be punished too. Come, let us go to the place where your torture is prepared; I am going to tell every one that I prefer to perish with you than to survive you.’

The son of Abdallah opposed his wife’s design. He conjured her not to give him so fatal a mark of her affection; and Dilara on her side, persisting in the wish to die with him, begged him not to oppose her resolution.

Whilst they were disagreeing they heard a great noise at the street-door, and soon they saw the cadi, followed by several persons, among whom were Mouzaffer and his son, enter the courtyard. At this sight the daughter of Boyruc fainted; and whilst she was in the arms of slaves who hastened to succour her, Couloufe profited by the moment and ran to meet the cadi. But this judge, far from coming to fetch him to lead him to death, made him an obeisance and said with a smiling air:

‘My lord, the courier sent to Khokand has arrived, accompanied by a servant of Massaoud, your father, who sends you forty camels loaded with stuffs, fine linen, and other merchandise. We no longer doubt you to be the son of this rich merchant, and we beg you to forget the bad treat­ment we have subjected you to.’

After the judge had made this speech, which caused extreme astonishment to Couloufe, Mou­zaffer and his son assured him of their sorrow at the blows he had received.

‘I renounce,’ said Taher, ‘the claims I had on Dilara. I admit she is yours, and I give her up to you on condition that if the fancy takes you to repudiate her soon, and you wish to take her back, you will choose me for friend.’

Couloufe did not know what to think of all he heard. He thought Taher and the cadi were rallying him, and that they were going to speak to him in another tone, when a slave who arrived, kissed his hand and said, presenting a letter to him: ‘My lord, your father and your mother are well; they hope passionately to see you again; their eyes and their ears are on the road.’