“Answer my question, Zara.  Do you know anything about this plot?  Yes or no.  Say no, and I shall believe you.”

“Your slave has never plotted against her lord,” replied I.  “Further I cannot answer your question.”

“Then it is true;—­and Zara—­even Zara is false!” cried the sultan, clasping his hands in agony.  “O! where can a person in my situation find one who is faithful and true, when Zara, even Zara is false?”

“No—­no, my lord,” cried I, bursting into tears; “Zara is true;—­always has been, always will be, true. That I can boldly answer—­but do not press the other question.”

The sultan looked at me for a short time, and then consulted with the viziers and others, who stood by the throne with their arms folded.  The chief vizier replied, “Those who know of treason, and conceal it, are participators in the crime.”

“True—­most true.  Zara, for the last time I ask you, what do you know of this intended insurrection?  I must be trifled with no longer.  A plain answer, or——­”

“I cannot answer that question, my lord.”

“Zara, as you value your life, answer me immediately,” cried the sultan, with violence;—­but I answered not.

Twice more did the forbearance and love of the sultan induce him to repeat the question; but I remained silent.

He waved his hands, I was seized by the mutes, and the bowstring encircled my neck.  All was ready, they awaited but the last signal to tighten the fatal cord.

“Once more, Zara, will you answer; or brave me to your destruction?”

“Sultan, I will at least speak to you before I die.  I only wish to declare my fidelity and my love to you in my last moments, to tell you that I forgive you for that which, when the truth is known, you will never forgive yourself.  One moment more.  Let me remove this jewelled chain from my neck, now superseded by the bowstring.  You presented it to me when convinced of my attachment and my love.  Take it, sultan, and when you find one as faithful and as true, present it to her; but until you do so, wear it in memory of Zara.  And now let me throw my veil over those features which have always beamed with love and delight on you, that when I am dead, and you call them to your recollection, they may be as you have been used to see them, and not black with convulsions and distorted with agony.  My lord, my dear and honoured lord, farewell!”

The sultan was deeply moved; he turned away his head, and covered his face with one hand, while the other dropped at his side from the intensity of his feelings.

Although it never was so intended, this dropping of his hand was considered as the signal for my death.  The string was tightened, and buried itself, cutting deeply into the flesh of a neck once as fair and smooth as the polished marble of Patras.  For the first moments my torture was excruciating—­my eyes were forcing out of their sockets—­my tongue protruded from my mouth—­my brain appeared to be on fire—­but all recollection soon departed.