The vizier loved this daughter, so worthy of his affection.  One day, as they were conversing together, she said to him, “Father, I have one favour to beg of you, and most humbly pray you to grant it.”  “I will not refuse,” answered he, “provided it be just and reasonable.”  “For the justice of it,” resumed she, “there can be no question, and you may judge of this by the motive which obliges me to make the request.  I wish to stop that barbarity which the sultan exercises upon the families of this city.  I would dispel those painful apprehensions which so many mothers feel of losing their daughters in such a fatal manner.”  “Your design, daughter,” replied the vizier “is very commendable; but the evil you would remedy seems to me incurable.  How do you propose to effect your purpose?” “Father,” said Scheherazade, “since by your means the sultan makes every day a new marriage, I conjure you, by the tender affection you bear me, to procure me the honour of his bed.”  The vizier could not hear this without horror.  “O heaven!” he replied in a passion, “have you lost your senses, daughter, that you make such a dangerous request?  You know the sultan has sworn, that he will never lie above one night with the same woman, and to command her to be killed the next morning; would you then have me propose you to him?  Consider well to what your indiscreet zeal will expose you.”  “Yes, dear father,” replied the virtuous daughter, “I know the risk I run; but that does not alarm me.  If I perish, my death will be glorious; and if I succeed, I shall do my country an important service.”  “No, no,” said the vizier “whatever you may offer to induce me to let you throw yourself into such imminent danger, do not imagine that I will ever consent.  When the sultan shall command me to strike my poniard into your heart, alas!  I must obey; and what an employment will that be for a father!  Ah! if you do not dread death, at least cherish some fears of afflicting me with the mortal grief of imbuing my hands in your blood.”  “Once more father,” replied Scheherazade, “grant me the favour I solicit.”  “Your stubbornness,” resumed the vizier “will rouse my anger; why will you run headlong to your ruin?  They who do not foresee the end of a dangerous enterprise can never conduct it to a happy issue.  I am afraid the same thing will happen to you as befell the ass, which was well off, but could not remain so.”  “What misfortune befell the ass?” demanded Scheherazade.  “I will tell you,” replied the vizier, “if you will hear me.”

The Ass, the Ox, and the Labourer.

A very wealthy merchant possessed several country-houses, where he kept a large number of cattle of every kind.  He retired with his wife and family to one of these estates, in order to improve it under his own direction.  He had the gift of understanding the language of beasts, but with this condition, that he should not, on pain of death, interpret it to any one else.  And this hindered him from communicating to others what he learned by means of this faculty.