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At sunset the caravan started on, and soon reached Birket-el-Had, or Pilgrim’s Fountain; from which it was only a three hours’ journey to Cairo. The caravan was expected about this time, and therefore the merchants soon had the pleasure of seeing their friends coming from Cairo to meet them. They entered the city through the gate Bab-el-Falch, as it is considered a happy omen for those who come from Mecca to pass through this gate, as the Prophet went out of it.

On the market-place the three Turkish merchants took leave of the stranger Selim Baruch, and the Greek merchant Zaleukos, and went home with their friends. But Zaleukos showed the stranger a good caravansary, and invited him to take dinner with him. The stranger accepted the invitation, and promised to come as soon as he had made some changes in his dress.

The Greek made every preparation to entertain his guest, for whom he had acquired a strong liking on the journey; and when the dishes were all arranged in order, he sat down to await the coming of his guest.

At last he heard slow and heavy steps in the hall that led to his room. He arose to go and meet him and welcome him on the threshold; but no sooner had he opened the door, than he stepped back horrified, for that terrible man with the red mantle stepped towards him! He looked at him again; there was no illusion; the same tall, commanding figure, the mask through which the dark eyes shone, the red mantle with the gold embroidery, were only too closely associated with the most terrible hours of his life.

Conflicting emotions surged in Zaleukos’s breast. He had long since become reconciled to this picture of memory, and had forgiven him who had injured him; yet the appearance of the man himself opened all his wounds afresh; all those painful hours when he had suffered almost the pangs of death,–the remorse that had poisoned his young life,–all this swept over his soul in the flight of a moment.

“What do you want, monster?” exclaimed the Greek, as the apparition stood motionless on the threshold. “Vanish quickly, before I curse you!”

“Zaleukos!” spoke a well-known voice, from beneath the mask, “Zaleukos! is it thus you receive your guest?” The speaker removed the mask, and threw the mantle back; it was Selim Baruch, the stranger.

But Zaleukos was not yet quieted. He shuddered at the stranger, for only too plainly had he recognized the unknown man of the Ponte Vecchio. But the old habit of hospitality prevailed; he silently beckoned to the stranger to take a seat at the table.

“I perceive your thoughts,” said the stranger, after they were seated. “Your eyes look inquiringly at me. I could have remained silent, and never more appeared to your vision; but I owe you an explanation, and therefore I ventured to appear to you in my old form, knowing that I run the risk of your cursing me. But you once told me: The religion of my fathers commands me to love him, and then he must be more unhappy than I. Believe that, my friend, and listen to my vindication.

“I must begin far back, in order to make my story quite clear. I was born in Alexandria, of Christian parents. My father was the French consul there, and was the younger son of a famous old French family. From my tenth year up, I was under the care of my uncle, in France, and left my fatherland some years after the breaking out of the Revolution, with my uncle, who no longer felt safe in the land of his ancestors, in order to find a refuge with my parents across the sea. We landed in Alexandria, hopeful of finding in my parents’ home that quiet and peace that no longer obtained in France. The outside storms of this excitable period had not, it is true, extended to this point, but from an unexpected quarter came the blow that crushed our family to the ground. My brother, a young man full of promise, and private secretary to my father, had but recently married the daughter of a Florentine nobleman who lived in my father’s neighborhood. Two days before our arrival, my brother’s bride disappeared; and neither our family, nor yet her father, could discover the slightest trace of her. We finally came to the conclusion that she had ventured too far away for a walk, and had fallen into the hands of brigands. This belief would have been a consolation to my brother, in comparison with the truth that was only too soon made known to us. The faithless woman had eloped with a young Neapolitan, whom she had been in the habit of meeting at her father’s house. My brother, terribly excited by this act, used his utmost endeavors to bring the guilty one to account; but in vain. His attempts in this direction, which had aroused attention in Florence and Naples, only served to bring down misfortune on us all. The Florentine nobleman returned to his country under the pretext of assisting my brother, but with the real design of destroying us all. He put an end to all the investigations instituted by my brother in Florence, and used his influence so effectually that my father and brother fell under the suspicion of their government, were imprisoned in the most outrageous manner, and taken to France, where they were guillotined. My mother went crazy, and only after ten long months did death release her from her terrible condition. But she recovered her sanity a few days before her death. I was thus left all alone in the world, but only one thought occupied my soul, only one thought overshadowed my grief: it was the powerful flame of revenge that my mother kindled in my breast during the last hours of her life.