The princess swore that she would execute his orders exactly.

‘We must,’ he said, ‘depart to-night. I will lead you to the State of the prince who loves you, and who will endow you with a crown richer than that of Cashmere. You are doubtless astonished that I should propose an elopement, but the Prophet wishes it.’

‘What!’ interrupted Farrukhnaz, very sur­prised; ‘he orders me, without telling the king, my father, to leave the court of Cashmere to go and seek a prince who is not yet my husband!’

‘I do not say that,’ replied the high priest; ‘Togrul-Bey will know of your departure. I undertake to get his consent; but the Prophet thinks it expedient that things should be done thus in order to make you expiate your pride.’

‘This step,’ replied the princess, ‘is not to my taste, I confess; however, I am ready to follow you, provided that my father consents.’

‘I answer for his consent,’ replied the dervish; rely on me for that. Return to the palace and prepare to depart.

Farrukhnaz did what the holy man prescribed, and he went shortly afterwards to the king. He found Togrul Bey talking to the princess’s nurse. As soon as the king saw him appear, he said to him: ‘Approach, holy dervish, you are wel­come! We were speaking of the quick change that has taken place in the heart of my daughter: you are responsible for this wonder. She hated men: you have in a moment triumphed over this hatred. One conversation with you has done more than all the stories of Sutlumemé.’

‘Sire,’ replied the high priest, ‘I have gone further; Farrukhnaz not only no longer hates men, she is even enamoured of the Prince of Persia.’

Then the dervish related all that had passed between the princess and himself, and declared the wishes of the Prophet.

Togrul Bey, after having reflected some time, said to the high priest: ‘I regret to see my daughter obliged to depart thus, but since the Prophet commands, I shall take care not to oppose it. Moreover, she will be under your escort; I need fear nothing.’

The king consented to the departure of Farrukhnaz, who left Cashmere that very night, with her nurse and the dervish only; for the holy man assured the princess that the Prophet wished her to make the journey unaccompanied.

They were all three on horseback. They travelled all night without stopping; they arrived at daybreak in a meadow where a thousand varieties of sweet-smelling flowers rejoiced the eye. The meadow bordered on a garden, the walls of which were of white marble. At one end of the wall rose a cabinet of red sandal-wood, with a gilt balcony, and below flowed a stream of the finest water in the world, which ran through the meadow and watered the flowers. The beauty of the place inviting them to stop, they dismounted, and seated themselves on the bank of the stream.

They were charmed with such a delicious spot; but whilst they were admiring it the dervish suddenly changed colour. His face became deadly pale, and his body trembled. Farrukhnaz and her nurse, alarmed at this change, asked the reason of it.

‘O my princess,’ replied the dervish, casting terrified glances on the daughter of Togrul Bey, ‘what demon has brought us here? This cabinet above us, this meadow, the walls of this garden all announce to me that this is the redoubtable dwelling of the magician Mehrefza. If she sees us, we are lost. Alas! I call Heaven to witness that I tremble only for you: if I were alone, I would form a great project, and I feel courageous enough to carry it out.’

‘Do,’ said Farrukhnaz, ‘as if we were not with you. If our evil destiny is to perish here, at least I will fulfil it with firmness worthy of my noble blood.’

‘Ah, beautiful princess,’ cried the dervish, ‘your firmness dissipates all my fear. I am going to acquire immortal glory or die. Remain here; if I do not return in an hour, it will be a certain sign that I have not succeeded in my project.’

Saying these words, he drew his sword and entered the magician’s garden. After his depar­ture, Farrukhnaz and her nurse felt terribly agitated.

‘Ah! unhappy dervish,’ said Farrukhnaz, ‘what will become of you? I fear lest you lose your life.’

‘My princess,’ said Sutlumemé, ‘fear nothing. Can a priest of the temple succumb beneath a magician’s blow? No; however perilous may be the enterprise he has formed, do not doubt but that he will come out of it happily.’

Indeed, at the end of an hour they saw him return. He approached them laughing, and said:

‘Thanks to the Almighty, Mehrefza can hurt us no longer, and our sojourn here, which the cruel woman made terrible by her magic, has nothing but pleasures to offer us. But it is time, beautiful princess, to let you know who I am. Do not look upon me any longer as a dervish, as the head of the temple of Cashmere; see in me the confidant of the Prince Farrukhschad. I will tell you his story and mine in a few words; after that we will enter Mehrefza’s palace, where you will be received as you deserve, and where you will see things which will surprise you.

‘The great king who to-day rules over Persia, and whose court is at Shiraz, has as his heir an only son named Farrukhschad. One day this young prince fell ill. His father, who loves him tenderly, was alarmed at it; he sent for skilful physicians, who all said, after having observed Farrukhschad closely, that his illness was such as he himself alone could explain.

‘The king pressed him to tell the cause of it, but not being able to drag his secret from him, he sent for me.

‘“Symorgue,” he said, “I know my son hides nothing from you; go and see him, get him to open his soul to you, and do not scruple to come and tell me afterwards what he has said to you.”

‘“No, sire,” I replied, “as he is ill only because he persists in silence as to the subject of his trouble, I shall take care not to tell it to you. I am too interested in him to betray him thus.”

‘“Go and speak to him, then,” replied the king, “I await your return with much impatience.”

‘I ran to the prince’s apartment. He evinced much pleasure at the sight of me, and reproached me saying:

‘“O my dear friend, I have a complaint against you. Since I have been ill, I have not seen you; why have you delayed so long in coming to see me? I have received endless importunate visits; alas! yours alone could be agreeable to me in my present condition.”

‘“I was out hunting,” I said to him, “and I have only just arrived. But what ails you, prince? How is it that your complexion has partly lost its brilliancy?”

‘“Symorgue,” replied the prince, after having sent all the officers out of his room, “I have never had a secret from you; far from wishing to conceal the cause of my illness from you, I was only waiting to tell it you. Would you believe, my friend, that the condition in which you see me is caused by a dream?”

‘“Heavens! what are you saying?” I cried in surprise. “Can a dream have made so much impression on so reasonable a mind?”

‘“I foresaw your astonishment,” replied Far­rukhschad, “but I confess my weakness to you. I hide it with care from everyone, and it is to you alone that I can make such a confidence. Listen, then, to the strange cause of my trouble. I dreamt I was in a meadow all strewn with flowers; there appeared a young lady more beautiful than a houri. I could not resist her charms, I prostrated myself at her feet, I confessed my love to her; but, instead of listening to me, the inhuman creature said to me in a contemptuous manner: ‘Go your way, men are traitors; for I saw in a dream a doe who, after having by her efforts disentangled a stag from a snare, herself fell into another, and the stag, far from helping her in his turn, was ungrate­ful enough to abandon her. I judge by that of the hearts of men; I believe them all to be ungrateful, and I have renounced their love.’”

‘“I wished,” pursued the prince, “to take up the cudgels for men and to undeceive her; but the cruel woman left me. ‘Ah! my goddess,’ I cried out, ‘say rather that it is the doe who abandons the stag.’ Saying these words, I lost sight of her, and awoke. This, dear friend, is the fatal dream which troubles the repose of my life. I know that were I reasonable I should dwell no longer upon this dream.”

‘“No, my lord,” I interrupted, “you must not efface it from your mind. I, like you, begin to lend myself to these agreeable phantoms; I believe them to be less formed by sleep than by some favourable genie who has wished to put before you the features of the princess whom Heaven destines to be your wife. Come, my prince, let us wander from kingdom to kingdom in search of this person; we may be able to find her, and see her more really than you have done. I shall tell your father that your trouble comes only from a violent desire to travel, and I am sure he will permit you to satisfy your desire.”