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?”
And the youth answered, “She is, O Vizier, that she is!”
But the Vizier cried, “Nay, by Allah! she is that she will be.” And the Vizier said, “ ’Tis she that is my daughter; tell me thy thought of her, as thou thinkest it.”
And Shibli Bagarag replied, “O Vizier, my thought of her is, she seemeth indeed as Bhanavar the Beautiful—no other.”
Then the Vizier and the Eclipser of Reason exclaimed together, “How of Bhanavar and her story, O youth? We listen!”
So Shibli Bagarag leaned slightly on a cushion of a couch, and narrated as followeth.
And This Is the Story of Bhanavar the Beautiful
Know that at the foot of a lofty mountain of the Caucasus there lieth a deep blue lake; near to this lake a nest of serpents, wise and ancient. Now, it was the habit of a damsel to pass by the lake early at morn, on her way from the tents of her tribe to the pastures of the flocks. As she pressed the white arch of her feet on the soft green-mossed grasses by the shore of the lake she would let loose her hair, looking over into the water, and bind the braid again round her temples and behind her ears, as it had been in a lucent mirror: so doing she would laugh. Her laughter was like the falls of water at moonrise; her loveliness like the very moonrise; and she was stately as a palm-tree standing before the moon.
This was Bhanavar the Beautiful.
Now, the damsel was betrothed to the son of a neighbouring Emir, a youth comely, well-fashioned, skilled with the bow, apt in all exercises; one that sat his mare firm as the trained falcon that fixeth on the plunging bull of the plains; fair and terrible in combat as the lightning that strideth the rolling storm; and it is sung by the poet:
“When on his desert mare I see
My prince of men,
I think him then
As high above humanity
As he shines radiant over me.Lo! like a torrent he doth bound,
Breasting the shock
From rock to rock:
A pillar of storm, he shakes the ground,His turban on his temples wound.
Match me for worth to be adored
A youth like him
In heart and limb!
Swift as his anger is his sword;
Softer than woman his true word.”
Now, the love of this youth for the damsel Bhanavar was a consuming passion, and the father of the damsel and the father of the youth looked fairly on the prospect of their union, which was near, and was plighted as the union of the two tribes. So they met, and there was no voice against their
