“How!” cried the astonished Vizier, “would’st thou shed the blood of our beloved master?—­No, by Alla!”—­

“Pardon me,” rejoined the stranger, interrupting him, “and Heaven avert that any thought of harm against the father of his people should warm the breast of Abad; I wish only to anoint my finger with as much of his precious blood as would hide the point of the finest needle; and should this most inestimable favour be conferred upon me, I undertake, under pain of suffering all the tortures that human ingenuity can devise, or devilish vengeance inflict, to exterminate the hated race of banditti who now infest the forests of the East.”

“Son,” said the aged Vizier, “I will plead thy cause; meet me here on the morrow, and in the mean time consider thy request as granted.”

“Father, I take my leave; and may the Guardian of the Good shower down a thousand blessings on thy head!”

Abad made a profound obeisance to the Vizier, and they separated:  the latter to conduct the affairs of the state, and the former to toil through the more menial labours of the day.

Morning came; Abad was at the appointed spot before sunrise, and waited with impatience for the expected hour when the Vizier was to arrive.  The Vizier was punctual; and with him, in a plain habit, was the Caliph himself, who underwent the operation of having blood drawn from him by the hand of Abad.

At midnight, Abad, as he had been directed by the Genius of the Dale, went to the cave of the Spirit of the Mountain.  He was alone!  It was pitchy dark; the winds howled through the thick foliage of the forest; the owls shrieked, and the wolves bayed; the loneliness of the place was calculated to inspire terror! and the idea of meeting such a personage, at such an hour, did not contribute to the removal of that terror!  He trembled most violently.  At length, summoning up courage he entered the mystic cell, and commenced challenging the assistance of the Spirit of the Mountain in the following words: 

“In the name of the Genius of the Dale I conjure you! by our holy Prophet I command you! by the darkness of this murky night I entreat you! and by the blood of a Caliph, shed by this weak arm, I allure you, most potent Muloch, to appear!  Muloch rise! help! appear!”

At this instant the monster appeared, in the form of a human being of gigantic stature and proportions, having a fierce aspect, large, dark, rolling eyes, bushy eyebrows, and a thick black beard—­attired in the habit of a blacksmith!  He bore a huge hammer in his right hand, and in his left he carried a pair of pincers, in which was grasped a piece of shapeless metal.  His eyes flashed with indignation as he flourished the ponderous hammer over his head, as though it had been a small sword—­when, striking the metal he held in the forceps, a round, well-formed shield fell from the stroke.

“Mortal!” vociferated the enchanter, in a voice of thunder, “there is thy weapon and defence!”—­flinging the weighty hammer on the ample shield, the collision of which produced a sound in unison with the deep bass of Muloch’s voice; nor did the reverberation that succeeded cease to ring in the ears of Abad until several minutes after the spectre had disappeared.