The minutes seemed like days, the hours like years, until the announcement was heralded that Ibrahim Chan had sallied forth with his guests to the prize combat, and that the ladies awaited the minstrels.  They were assembled on the housetop, lovely matrons and maidens, and there was spread a large carpet on which set two players on the sass and tshengir, between whom each singer in turn took his place to sing his offering to the sound of strings.  The handsomest boy in Gjaendsha was appointed to hand to each singer a silver plate, wherewith to conceal from the eye of beauty the emotions depicted in his countenance while singing.  Twenty singers stood in a circle and stepped forth one after the other, Mirza-Schaffy, as the youngest of the number, coming last.  All other emanations he felt to be faint sparks in comparison with the fire of his own.  How could it be otherwise, considering the source of his inspiration?  As he sang his heart swelled with ecstasy, and when he concluded there lay at his feet a full-blown rose.  He was victor of the festival, yet so filled was he with thoughts of his beloved that he remembered not to break the instruments of the vanquished.

The flight was effected; the bride, although awaiting the coming of the bridegroom in bridal array, offering all due resistance as he led her from her home; indeed, so zealous was she to be faithful to the customs of her country that her cries would have roused the household had not the prudent Fatima interposed.  On reaching the caravan a double security seemed to arise from the Armenian proving to be the accepted lover of Fatima; and Zuleikha, although deeming it a degradation for a daughter of Ali to unite her destinies with an unbeliever, was herself too strongly in the bondage of love to withhold her consent.  Then how happy were they all! and what precautions were taken for their safety!  Nevertheless, they were overtaken by the angry father and the outraged suitor of his choice.  Zuleikha and Fatima were rudely snatched from the protection of their lovers, and the learned scribe—­we blush to write it—­received on the very soles which had borne him to the summit of bliss the ignominious blows of the bastinado.

From that day Mirza-Schaffy had felt indisposed to bestow his affections on mortal woman, and since the sun of his hopes had set dwelt serenely in the moonlight of remembrance.  As Zuleikha, the embodiment of all virtue and beauty, had loved him, he believed himself to be an object of adoration to all feminine hearts, and grimly resolved that all womankind must suffer in expiation of his own sufferings.

During the winter there arrived another student from Germany, who, becoming acquainted with Bodenstedt, arranged to share with him the lessons in Tartar and Persian, which Mirza-Schaffy was pleased to call “hours of wisdom.”  In course of time other friends joined the circle, so that finally arose a formal divan, where the wise man of Gjaendsha discoursed less on personalities, dwelling chiefly on general effusions of wisdom, interspersed with many a song.  One of the latter reads as though designed by Bodenstedt to indicate the relation borne by Mirza-Schaffy to his own productions: