Let us return to the young merchant of Bagdad. After the departure of his beautiful slave he fell into a languor that nothing could dissipate. It was in vain that he joined in pleasure-parties. Zeineb, whom he had always in his mind, would not allow him to be happy. ‘Oh, unhappy fellow that I am!’ he often said to himself. ‘I feel I cannot live without Zeineb: why did I give her up to the King of Moussul? Is it not surpassing the limit of friendship to give up the person one adores to one’s friend? Would Nasiraddoleh have done the same for me? No, without doubt, and I am certain he does not know the value of the sacrifice that I have made for him. He thinks I loved my favourite slave indifferently, since I gave her to him without even his asking me for her. What fortunate lover has ever given up his mistress out of pity for a friend? Yet I love Zeineb as much as one can love. But, alas! what does my grief matter? What is the use of condemning myself? I would do again what I have done, whatever my grief may be at this moment. The prince to whose happiness I immolate my affection is worthy of so great a sacrifice, and he is more worthy than I to possess Zeineb.’

Abderrahman was in this frame of mind: he was in despair at having lost his slave, without repenting of having given her up to the King of Moussul. He had been leading a sad life for three months, when one day they came to arrest him by order of the grand vizir. He was told that he was accused of having spoken disrespect­fully of the Commander of the Faithful during a carouse. It was in vain that he protested that not a word that could offend the caliph had escaped his lips: he was conducted to prison. Two lords of the court who were his secret enemies had invented this calumny for his destruction, and on their false evidence the grand vizir had him arrested. It was even ordered that all his goods should be confiscated that very day, his house razed to the ground, and that the following day his head should be cut off upon a scaffold which should be erected for that purpose before the caliph’s palace.

The warder of the prison where he was went during the night to inform him of his sentence. ‘My lord Abderrahman,’ he then said, ‘I sympa­thise greatly in your misfortune. I am all the more touched by it that I am under an obligation to you. You have twice rendered me assistance when most needed. This is an opportunity for showing my gratitude to you. I have resolved to set you at liberty, and so acquit myself towards you. Leave the prison, the doors are open to you. Fly, and escape the punishment which awaits you.’

At this speech Abderrahman, in a transport of joy, embraced the warder and thanked him for his generosity; then suddenly thinking of the danger which this man ran in setting him at liberty, he said, ‘You do not reflect that in saving my life you expose your own. I do not wish to take advantage of your generous instincts; it is not fair that I should let you perish for me.’

‘Do not trouble yourself about me,’ replied the warder; ‘tell me only whether you are innocent or guilty. Have you really spoken disrespectfully of the caliph? Disguise nothing from me. I must know the truth, and shall act accordingly.’

‘I call Heaven to witness,’ replied the young merchant, ‘that I have never spoken of the Commander of the Faithful but with all the respect due to him.’

‘That being so,’ replied the warder, ‘I know what I shall do. If you were guilty I should fly with you, but since you are not, I shall stay here and spare nothing to make your innocence apparent.’

Abderrahman thanked the warder again, and left the prison. He took refuge with one of his friends, who hid him in a spot in his house where he believed him in safety.

The following day the grand vizir, having heard of the escape of the prisoner, sent for the warder and said: ‘Oh, miserable fellow! is it thus you do your duty? You have let a prisoner escape who was in your charge, or rather you have set him at liberty yourself. If you do not find him in twenty-four hours, you will experience the fate destined for him.’

‘My lord,’ replied the warder, ‘I do not refuse to die for him; I will admit that it was I who released him. I could not endure that he should perish. I have opened his prison doors and advised him to take flight. I confess my crime. I am prepared to expiate it with the death you had prepared for the honestest man in Bagdad, and I venture to say the most innocent.’

‘And what proof,’ said the vizir, ‘have you of his innocence?’

‘The avowal made to me by himself,’ replied the warder. ‘Abderrahman is incapable of lying, but you, my lord, will permit me to say that you allowed yourself to be too easily persuaded. Do you know the young merchant’s accusers? Are you sure of their integrity, so that you can believe their word? Are they not, perhaps, the secret enemies of the accused? Do you know that envy and hatred do not arm them against him? Beware of being led away by impostors, and fear to shed innocent blood, for you will one day be obliged to give an account of the power entrusted to you. You will be rewarded if you make only a good use of it, but you will be punished if you abuse it.’

These words, spoken in a firm tone by the warder, astonished the grand vizir, and made him reflect. He had the warder imprisoned till further orders, and resolved to neglect nothing in order to discover whether the accusers of the young merchant had made their depositions in good faith; however, as he had already razed the house of the accused and confiscated his goods, he did not wish his prudence to be suspected. He ordered the cadi to have Abderrahman sought for in the neighbourhood of Bagdad.

Whilst the cadi’s lieutenant was scouring the country with his archers, the young Bagdad merchant remained hidden at his friend’s house, and, judging by the care taken to hide him that things were not going well, he feared lest the cadi would come and surprise him where he was, so he formed the design of going to Moussul. ‘There,’ he said, ‘I shall be quite safe, provided that I reach the court of Nasiraddoleh; that will soon make me forget my disgrace.’

As soon as he knew that the archers, tired of searching in vain, had returned to Bagdad, he left it one night, mounted on a very fine horse which his friend had given him, and took the road to Moussul. He made such haste that he arrived there in a very short while. He alighted at the first caravanserai, where he left his horse, and then he betook himself to the court All the officers of the king recognised him. ‘There,’ they cried, ‘is the stranger whom our monarch cherishes so much. Welcome to him!’ In a moment the news of his arrival spread in the palace, and reached the ears of Nasiraddoleh.

The prince sent for his treasurer, and said to him, ‘Go and find Abderrahman, and give him from me two hundred gold sequins. Tell him to spend them in his business, to leave my palace, and not to return for six months.’

The treasurer discharged his commission immediately, and the merchant was strangely sur­prised at it. It was, indeed, a very singular reception to give him, and one he was not prepared for. ‘What,’ he cried, ‘is it thus that the King of Moussul receives a man whom he has not disdained to treat as a friend? Have I done aught to displease him? Alas! I flattered myself that he would always have the same feeling for me, and this hope consoled me for all my mis­fortunes.’

‘Do not distress yourself,’ said the treasurer. ‘The king still loves you, and if he does not receive you better, he must have reasons for it. Do as he wishes; you will perhaps have no occasion to repent of it.’

Abderrahman left the caravanserai not know­ing what to think of Nasiraddoleh. ‘What does he wish me to do,’ he said, ‘with two hundred sequins? I cannot do much business with so modest a sum. Had he given me a thousand gold sequins I might have associated myself with a great merchant and begun a new fortune.’

He took every precaution to make the most of his money; but application does not suffice for merchants to succeed in their business—they must have luck. If fortune does not second their efforts their labour is lost.

It was in vain that Abderrahman applied him­self with fervour: he did not get out of his business what he had put in, so that at the end of six months he had only a hundred and fifty sequins left. He then appeared at the court.

The treasurer came to him from the king and asked him if he still had his two hundred sequins. ‘No,’ replied the young merchant, ‘a quarter of them are gone.’

‘Since that is the case,’ replied the treasurer, counting out fifty sequins, ‘here is your sum com­plete. Go and chance it again, and return in six months.’

The merchant was not less surprised at this speech than he was before. ‘What is Nasiraddoleh thinking of? Is it thus that he acquits himself towards me? Does he think to pay thus the sacrifice I made to him of all that I held most dear in the world? Should I not be ashamed of having fifty sequins given me? Is it a present worthy of him? I wish, however,’ he continued, ‘to do what he orders me. I shall return to this palace at the time indicated; but it will be for the last time if I am not differently received.’