before the princess, be compared, themselves, to the most beauteous flowers, strong rooted in their hopes, and basking in the sun of her presence; and, as their hopes were cut off, what were they but the same flowers severed from their stalks, and drooping before the sunny beams, now too powerful to be borne, or loaded with the dew of tears, removed to fade away unheeded?  There were but few left, when Mezrimbi, who had, as he thought, hit upon the right name, and who, watching the countenance of Acota, which had an air of impatient indifference upon it, which induced Mezrimbi to suppose that he had lighted upon the same idea, and might forestall him, stepped forward with his mandolin.  Mezrimbi was considered one of the best poets in Souffra; in fact, he had every talent, but not one virtue.  He bent forward in an elegant attitude, and sang as follows:—­

  “Who does the nightingale love?  Alas! we
  Know.  She sings of her love in the silence of
  Night, and never tells the name of her adored one.

  “What are flowers but the language of love? 
  And does not the nightingale rest her breast
  Upon the thorn as she pours out her plaintive notes?

  “Take then out of thy bosom the sweet flower of May
  Which is hidden there, emblematical of thy love,
  And the pleasing pain that it has occasioned.”

When Mezrimbi had finished the two first verses, the beauteous princess started with fear that he had gained her secret, and it was with a feeling of agony that she listened to the last; agony succeeded by a flow of joy, at his not having been successful.  Impatiently she waved her hand, and as impatiently did Mezrimbi depart from her presence.

Acota then stepped forward, and after a prelude, the beauty of which astonished all those around the queen’s person, for they had no idea that he could play in tune, sang in a clear melodious voice the following stanzas:—­

  “Sweet, blushing cheek! the rose is there,
  Thy breath, the fragrance of its bowers;
  Lilies are on thy bosom fair,
  And e’en thy very words seem flowers.

  “But lily, rose, or flower, that blows
  In India’s garden, on thy breast
  Must meet its death—­by breathing sweets
  Where it were ecstasy to rest.

  “A blossom from a nettle ta’en,
  Is in thy beauteous bosom bound,
  Born amid stings, it gives no pain,
  ’Tis sweetness among venom found.”

Acota was silent.  The beauteous princess, as the minstrel finished, rose slowly and tremulously from her cushions, and taking the blossom of a nettle from her bosom, placed it in the hands of the happy Acota, saying, with a great deal of piety, “It is the will of Heaven.”

“But how was it possible for Acota to find out that the princess had a nettle blossom in her bosom?” interrupted the pacha.  “No man could ever have guessed it.  I can’t make that out.  Can you, Mustapha?”