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Ibrahim had no sooner said these words, than he was seized by the officers of the cadi, and brought before Hussain. His grief can easily be conceived, when he heard the sentence of death. He entreated Hussain, in the name of their youthful friendship, to save his life.

“You yourself have violated our friendship,” replied the latter, coldly; “there are here witnesses of your words, and I cannot save you. All I can do is, to bring you to the Commander of the Faithful, who wishes to see the first violator of his proclamation, and to witness his execution.”

So far the old slave related. Ali was paralysed with horror; a messenger from the caliph first recalled him to consciousness. “Do you bring me his gray head?” asked Ali; “has the axe already dyed his thin silvery hair with blood?”

“I will bring you to your father,” replied the messenger. “The caliph has granted him permission to take leave of his son before he dies.”

“Is he still living?” cried Ali, and he hastened to the palace. On entering it, he saw the caliph sitting on his throne; while before him his father, with his hands tied behind him, was kneeling on a carpet. A silver basin stood near, and the executioner had already drawn his bright, sharp sword. Ali embraced his father.

“I cannot clasp you in my arms, my son,” said the old man, “but I die for your sake; parental fondness made my lips utter those words.”

“Untie his hands!” cried the caliph; “let him embrace his son before he dies.”

Ali threw himself at the caliph’s feet, and said, imploringly: “Restore me my father.”

“I pity your fate,” said Haroun al Raschid, with emotion, “but I have sworn that the blood of him who should revile my majesty and benevolence shall flow.”

“Oh! then there is hope of delivery,” cried Ali. “Am I not blood of my father’s blood? Let, then, my blood flow for his, that I may fall a sacrifice to your revenge, and that my death may release you from your oath.”

“What is it that you dare to offer me, young man?” said the caliph, sternly. “Do not think to soften my heart by a trick so common! What I have determined is unalterable, and in the name of Almighty God I tell you your tears cannot move me.”

Ali knelt down. “Strike!” he cried to the slave, as he stretched out his neck.

“What are you doing, my son?” cried the old man.

“I imitate my father,” said Ali. “From love to me you have exposed yourself to death, from love to you I will suffer it for you.”

“And your mistress–how will she wring her white hands!” said the caliph.

“Commander of the Faithful, I have none,” said Ali.

“How? Have you no passion? has not all-powerful love struck root in your heart?”

“I love God,” said Ali, “my father, and you, my liege, even in death; for I know that you are otherwise good and just; I love nature, men, and every thing beautiful that flourishes and lives; but no woman has yet awakened a passion!”

“Then Ibrahim was right,” cried Haroun al Raschid, laughing; “then you are really wiser than the caliph. Rise, my friends,” he continued, “neither of you shall die. Ibrahim has not violated my law; he knew it not. He has not praised his son at the expense of the caliph; my oath does not require his blood. Forgive me the terrors of death which I have caused you. A prince has seldom an opportunity of looking into the secrets of the heart with his own eyes. Only on the boundary which separates death from life, all considerations disappear, and only thus could I discover in you a virtue which I now admire. Go home, honest Ibrahim, you are healthy and cheerful, by nature, so that this shock will not be attended with any dangerous consequences. And you, wise Ali,” he continued, smiling, “I will see you again a year hence, and learn whether you are then as wise as you are now.” As soon as he had concluded, he dismissed them, and sent them home laden with splendid presents.