Unfortunate prince, says the sultan, you can never enough be lamented! Nobody can be more sensibly touched with your condition than I am; never did such an extraordinary misfortune befal any man, and those who write your history will have the advantage to relate something that surpasses all that has ever yet been written. There wants but the vengeance which is due to you, and I will omit nothing that can be done to procure it. While the sultan discoursed upon the subject with the young prince, he told him who he was, and for what end he entered the castle, and thought on a way to avenge him, which he communicated to him. They agreed upon the measures they were to take for effecting their design, but deferred the execution of it till the next day. In the mean time, the night being far spent, the sultan took some rest; but the poor young prince passed the night without sleep, as usual, having never slept since he was enchanted; but conceived some hopes of being speedily delivered from his misery. Next morning the sultan got up before day, and, in order to execute his design, he hid in a corner his upper garment, which would have encumbered him, and went to the Palace of Tears. He found it enlightened with an infinite number of flambeaux of white wax, and a delicious scent issued from several boxes of fine gold of admirable workmanship, all ranged in excellent order. As soon as he saw the bed where the black lay, he drew his scimitar, killed the wretch without resistance, dragged his corpse into the court of the castle, and threw it into a well. After this he went and lay down in the black’s bed, took his scimitar with him under the counterpane, and waited there to execute his design. The magician arrived in a little time. She first went into the chamber where her husband, the king of the Black Islands, was, stripped him, and beat him with the ox-pizzle in the most barbarous manner. The poor prince filled the palace with his lamentations to no purpose, and conjured her in the most affecting manner to take pity on him; but the cruel woman would not give over till she had given him a hundred blows. You had no compassion on my lover, said she, and you are to expect none from me. Scheherazade, perceiving day, stopped, and could go no further. O, heavens! says Dinarzade, sister, this was a barbarous enchantress indeed! but must we stop here? Will you not tell us whether she received the chastisement she deserved? My dear sister, says the sultaness, I desire nothing more than to acquaint you with it to-morrow; but you know that depends on the sultan’s pleasure. After what Schahriar had heard, he was far from any design to put Scheherazade to death; on the contrary, he said to himself, I will not take away her life until she has finished the surprising story, though it should last for two months. It will always be in my power to keep the oath I have made. TWENTY-SIXTH NIGHT.