Dinarzade having awaked her sister the sultaness as usual, prayed her to tell her another story. Scheherazade asked leave of the sultan, and having obtained it, began thus: Sir, in the reign of the same caliph Haroun Alraschid, whom I formerly mentioned, there lived at Bagdad a poor porter called Hindbad. One day, when the weather was very hot, he was employed to carry a heavy burden from one end of the town to the other. Being very weary, and having still a great way to go, he came into a street, where the delicate western breeze blew on his face, and the pavement of the street being sprinkled with rose water, he could not desire a better place to rest in; therefore, laying off his burden, he sat down by it near a great house. He was mightily pleased that he had stopped in this place, for an agreeable smell of wood of aloes and of pastils, that came from the house, mixing with the scent of the rose water, did completely perfume the air. Besides, he heard from within a concert of several sorts of instrumental music, accompanied with the harmonies of nightingales, and other birds peculiar to that climate. This charming melody, and the smell of several sorts of victuals, made the porter think there was a feast, with great rejoicings within. His occasions leading him seldom that way, he knew not who dwelt in the house; but, to satisfy his curiosity, he went to some of the servants, whom he saw standing at the gate in magnificent apparel, and asked the name of the master of the house. How, replied one of them, do you live in Bagdad, and know not that this is the house of Signior Sindbad, the sailor, that famous traveller who has sailed round the world? The porter, who had heard of Sindbad's riches, could not but envy a man whose condition he thought to be as happy as his own was deplorable; and his mind being fretted with these reflections, he lifted up his eyes to heaven, and says, loud enough to be heard, Almighty Creator of all things, consider the difference between Sindbad and me. I am every day exposed to fatigues and calamities, and can scarcely get coarse barley bread for myself and family, whilst happy Sindbad profusely expends immense riches, and leads a life of continual pleasure. What has he done to obtain from thee a lot so agreeable, and what have I done to deserve one so miserable? Having finished this expostulation, he struck his foot against the ground, like a man overwhelmed with grief and despair. While the porter was thus indulging his melancholy, a servant came out of the house, and taking him by the arm, bid him follow him, for Signior Sindbad, his master, wanted to speak with him.