When Shibli Bagarag heard mention of Shagpat, and the desire for vengeance in the Vizier, he was as a new man, and he smelt the sweetness of his own revenge as a vulture smelleth the carrion from afar, and he said, ‘I am thy servant, thy slave, O Vizier!’ Then smiled he as to his own soul, and he exclaimed, ‘On my head be it!’

And it was to him as when sudden gusts of perfume from garden roses of the valley meet the traveller’s nostril on the hill that overlooketh the valley, filling him with ecstasy and newness of life, delicate visions.  And he cried, ’Wullahy! this is fair; this is well!  I am he that was appointed to do thy work, O man in office!  What says the poet?—­

     “The destined hand doth strike the fated blow: 
     Surely the arrow’s fitted to the bow!”

And he says: 

     “The feathered seed for the wind delayeth,
     The wind above the garden swayeth,
     The garden of its burden knoweth,
     The burden falleth, sinketh, soweth."’

So the Vizier chuckled and nodded, saying, ’Right, right! aptly spoken, O youth of favour!  ’Tis even so, and there is wisdom in what is written: 

       “Chance is a poor knave;
        Its own sad slave;
        Two meet that were to meet: 
        Life ‘s no cheat."’

Upon that he cried, ’First let us have with us the Eclipser of Reason, and take counsel with her, as is my custom.’

Now, the Vizier made signal to a slave in attendance, and the slave departed from the Hall, and the Vizier led Shibli Bagarag into a closer chamber, which had a smooth floor of inlaid silver and silken hangings, the windows looking forth on the gardens of the palace and its fountains and cool recesses of shade and temperate sweetness.  While they sat there conversing in this metre and that, measuring quotations, lo! the old woman, the affianced of Shibli Bagarag—­and she sumptuously arrayed, in perfect queenliness, her head bound in a circlet of gems and gold, her figure lustrous with a full robe of flowing crimson silk; and she wore slippers embroidered with golden traceries, and round her waist a girdle flashing with jewels, so that to look on she was as a long falling water in the last bright slant of the sun.  Her hair hung disarranged, and spread in a scattered fashion off her shoulders; and she was younger by many moons, her brow smooth where Shibli Bagarag had given the kiss of contract, her hand soft and white where he had taken it.  Shibli Bagarag was smitten with astonishment at sight of her, and he thought, ’Surely the aspect of this old woman would realise the story of Bhanavar the Beautiful; and it is a story marvellous to think of; yet how great is the likeness between Bhanavar and this old woman that groweth younger!’

And he thought again, ’What if the story of Bhanavar be a true one; this old woman such as she—­no other?’

So, while he considered her, the Vizier exclaimed, ’Is she not fair—­my daughter?’