“Now, Zara, will you retract?” said the sultan, solemnly.

“No, my lord, I will not.  I repeat that you have a wen under your left arm.”

“Strike!” cried the sultan, in a paroxysm of rage.  The bamboos fell, and I received a dozen blows.  I bore them without a cry,—­I was too much choked by my feelings.

“Now, Zara, will you retract?” exclaimed the sultan, in a subdued tone.

“Never, sultan; I will prove to you that a woman has more courage than you imagine; if I die under the punishment, my rival shall not have even the pleasure of a groan.  You ask me to retract.  I will not swerve from the truth.  You have, and you know you have, and so does that vile parasite by your side know, that you have a wen under your left arm.”  I was faint with the pain, and my voice was weak and trembling.

“Proceed,” said the sultan.

When I had received thirty blows, I fainted with the agony, and the sultan ordered them to desist.  “I trust, Zara, you are now sufficiently punished for your disobedience.”  But I heard him not; and when the sultan, perceiving that I did not reply, looked at me, his heart melted.  He felt how arbitrary, how cruel he had been.  The Circassian went to him; he ordered her in a voice of thunder to be gone, me to be unbound by the other ladies, laid on the sofa, and restoratives to be procured.  When I came to my senses, I found myself alone with the sultan.  “Oh!  Zara,” said he, as the tears stood in his eyes, “why did you tempt me thus—­why were you so obstinate?”

“My lord,” answered I, in a feeble voice, “leave your slave, and go to those who can teach their tongues to lie.  I have never deceived you, although I may have displeased you.  I have loved you with fidelity and truth.  Now that you have witnessed what I can suffer rather than be guilty of falsehood, you ought to believe me.  Take my life, my lord, and I will bless you; for I have lost you, and with you I have lost more than life.”

“Not so, Zara,” replied the sultan; “I love you more than ever.”

“I am glad to hear you say so, my lord, although it is now of no avail.  I am no longer yours, and never will be.  I am unfit to be yours; my person has been contaminated by the touch of Ethiopian slaves—­it has been polluted by the hand of the executioner—­it has been degraded by a chastisement due only to felons.  Oblige me, as a last proof of your kindness, by taking a life which is a burden to me.”

Despot as he was, the sultan was much moved; he was mortified at having yielded to his temper, and his passionate affection for me had returned.  He entreated my pardon, and shed tears over me, kissed my swelled feet, and humiliated himself so much, that my heart relented—­for I loved him dearly still.

“Zara,” exclaimed he, at last, “will you not forgive me?”