Now, of the promise made by the Sons of Aklis to visit Shibli Bagarag before their compulsory return to the labour of the Sword, and recount to him the marvel of their antecedent adventures; and of the love and grief nourished in the souls of men by the beauty and sorrowful eyes of Gulrevaz, that was mined the Bleeding Lily, and of her engagement to tell her story, on condition of receiving the first-born of Noorna to nurse for a season in Aklis; and of Shibli Bagarag’s restoration of towns and monuments destroyed by his battle with Karaz; and of the constancy of passion of Shibli Bagarag for Noorna, and his esteem for her sweetness, and his reverence for her wisdom; and of the glory of his reign, and of the Songs and Sentences of Noorna, and of his Laws for the protection and upholding of women, in honour of Noorna, concerning which the Sage has said: 

     Were men once clad in them, we should create
     A race not following, but commanding, fate: 

—­of all these records, and of the reign of Baba Mustapha in Oolb, surely the chronicles give them in fulness; and they that have searched say of them, there is matter therein for the amusement of generations.

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     A woman’s at the core of every plot man plotteth
     Arm’d with Fear the Foe finds passage to the vital part
     Delay in thine undertaking Is disaster of thy own making
     Every failure is a step advanced
     Failures oft are but advising friends
     Fear nought so much as Fear itself
     How little a thing serves Fortune’s turn
     If thou wouldst fix remembrance—­thwack! 
     Lest thou commence to lie—­be dumb! 
     Like an ill-reared fruit, first at the core it rotteth
     More culpable the sparer than the spared
     No runner can outstrip his fate
     Nought credit but what outward orbs reveal
     Persist, if thou wouldst truly reach thine ends
     Ripe with oft telling and old is the tale
     The curse of sorrow is comparison! 
     The king without his crown hath a forehead like the clown
     The overwise themselves hoodwink
     ’Tis the first step that makes a path
     Too often hangs the house on one loose stone
     Vanity maketh the strongest most weak
     When to loquacious fools with patience rare I listen
     Where fools are the fathers of every miracle
     Who in a labyrinth wandereth without clue