“You do not forgive me, I fear,” returned Abbas, “for selfishly checking you in the career of glory;--knight, you wrong me, if you do not honour my motive; if you do not believe that I lament the necessity which forces me to attempt that, which your abler arm need only extend itself to seize.--Let me but redeem my fame, or lose a worthless, slighted life, a life that has now no charms,--since”--the Prince broke off abruptly, smothered a succession of sorrowful sighs, and turning aside his face, moved some steps away. Sebastian guessed ill at his emotion, when concluding it to arise solely from a warrior’s disappointment, he warmly replied, “What fantastic stain does my Prince attach to himself? valour, judgment, numbers, what are they in war, but uncertain and deceiving things? victory after all is in the hand of Heaven; and when a commander has faithfully employed every faculty of his soul for the success of his army, he may stand acquitted not only to his conscience, but to his countrymen.--Go, however, brave Abbas, I envy not the laurels you are about to gather: your feelings _are_ respected by one who has felt the pang of deserved self-reproach. It was my sad destiny to lose a memorable battle, to cause the deaths of thousands by a mixture of credulity and obstinacy. Yes!” Sebastian added, fixing his eyes upon the symbol of the cross he wore on his shield, “for the blood that flowed in torrents on that fatal day, I have no hope of pardon but from the sacred blood that was shed here.” A ray of consolation shone on the face of Abbas at this avowal of the invincible stranger; “You must detail this disastrous story when we meet again,” he said, “now I must hasten away--believing that you were to accompany me, I have confided the care of Ispahan to Peri Nadir.--I see by your looks that a night’s repose is absolutely needful to you--join me when you are refreshed.” Sebastian smiled assent: he looked at his friend, irresolute whether he should not confide to him the project for the night; but an instant’s reflection decided him to remain silent. Abbas might not see the necessity for such haste, and if so, Sebastian could not urge his weightiest reason, which was founded on an apprehension of the Prince’s failure; believing it imprudent to risk opposition, he exchanged a cordial embrace with him, and they parted. As Abbas passed the portico of the Kiosk, he encountered Sebastian’s page: the boy slowly ascending the entrance steps, with his head bent down, saw not the Prince, who struck by his air and figure suddenly stopped: finding his way obstructed, Zaphna raised his eyes;--those eyes--that ivory throat--that complexion untinted by the faintest red, threw Abbas’s senses into tumults,--did he, or did he not see before him the woman for whom his soul languished?