This man, one of the bostangis of the pacha, stole his master’s fruit to sell in the city. It was he who had left open the little gate, which was only used when the ditch was repairing. After having, on that day, pointed out to Ferdinand a mode of escaping from his embarrassment, it was he afterward, who, held by Baïla between the fear of denunciation and the hopes of reward, had introduced the Frank into the gardens, and even into the pavilion of the favorite. Having reached the delta, the bostangi drew from beneath a mass of overhanging rock, a long plank, which he used to cross the ditch; he then deposited it beneath the mass of nopals and wild apricots, in which Ferdinand was concealed. He saw a miracle from heaven in this concourse of unhoped for circumstances, co-operating in his deliverance. This plank became an ark of safety for him; he used it in his turn, and, thanks to the ford which the bostangi had revealed to him, after having wandered for some time in its unknown paths, after having struggled anew with the Kizil-Ermak, which, like a serpent in pursuit of its prey, he found everywhere on his path, and which appeared to wish to envelop him in its twistings and windings, he escaped finally all the dangers of his eventful walk. Having returned to the consulate in Shivas he had double cause to congratulate himself on having arrived there safe and sound, when he learned that the gardens into which he had so foolishly adventured were none other than those of Djezzar. But this woman whom he had seen—who could she be? When he thought of his meeting with her, he thought he had dreamed or had seen a vision. She reappeared before him in a multitude of forms; he saw her resembling a Bacchante, her cup in her hand, reclining indolently on a tiger’s skin; then, like a Peri or an Undine, when appearing to him through the gilded reflection of the sun and the rainbows of the small marble basin; and, finally, in her third transformation, erect, severe, irritated, ordering him to fly and threatening him with a dagger. His calm and chaste imagination lent, however, no charm to this triplicity of forms. He asked himself, on the contrary, if this vision did not present to him an emblem of all the vices united—intoxication, licentiousness, idleness, anger? He found means to complete the seven cardinal sins. In those accursed gardens, which were inhabited by the persecutor of the Christians, was it not the demon himself that had appeared to him? Thus, whilst Baïla was making of him a being apart—a marvelous being—whose traces she was honoring, an idol to which she was rendering the homage of love, he was piously entertaining a holy horror of her remembrance. This demon, however—this frightful assemblage of the seven cardinal sins, was essaying every means to approach him.