The Sultan himself began to be astonished at this phenomenon. What the pen seemed to be so diligently writing remained a hidden script, however, for its point had not been dipped in ink. Wishing, therefore, to put it to the test, the Sultan dipped the point of the reed in a little box full of that red balsamic salve with which Turkish girls are wont to paint their lips, and then placed it on a smooth, clean sheet of parchment, whereupon it again arose, and wrote in bright, plainly intelligible letters these words, "Mahmoud! Mahmoud!" The Sultan's own heart began to beat when he saw his own name written before his eyes, and he inquired with something like consternation, "What dost thou want of me?" The pen immediately wrote down again these two words, "Mahmoud! Mahmoud!" and then lay still. "That is my name," said the Sultan; "but who then art thou. O invisible spirit?" The pen again arose and wrote beneath the name of Mahmoud this name also, "Halil Patrona!" Mahmoud trembled at this name. It was the name of a man who had been murdered by one of his ancestors, and if the apparition of a spirit be terrible in itself, how much more the spirit of a murdered man! "What dost thou want here?" exclaimed the terrified Sultan. The pen answered, "To warn thee!" "Perchance a danger threatens me, eh?" inquired the Sultan. "'Tis near thee!" wrote the pen. "Whence comes this danger?" And now the pen wrote a long row of letters, and this was the purport thereof, "A great danger from the East, a greater from the West, a greater still from the North, and here at home the greatest of all." "Where will the Faithful fight?" asked the Sultan. "In the whole realm!" was the reply. "Near which towns?" "Near every town and within every town." "How long will the war last?" "Nine years." It was now the year eighteen hundred and twenty, and there was not a sign of danger at any point of the vast boundaries of the Turkish empire. The Sultan permitted himself one more question: "Tell me, shall I triumph in these wars?" The pen replied, "Thou wilt not." "Who will be my enemies?" There the pen stopped short, as if it were reflecting on something; at last it wrote down, "Another time." The Sultan did not understand this answer, so he repeated his question, and now the pen wrote, "Ask in another place!" "Where?" "Alone." Evidently it would not answer the question in the presence of the Sultan's favorite. It did not trust her. The Sultan almost believed that he was dreaming, but now his favorite damsel also drew near and, leaning on Mahmoud's shoulder, stammered forth, "Prithee, mighty spirit, wilt thou answer me?" And the pen replied, "I will." The woman asked, "Tell me, will Mahmoud love me to the death?" The Sultan was somewhat offended. "By the prophet!" cried he, "that thou shouldst put such a question!" But what is not a living woman capable of asking? The pen quivered gently as it wrote down the words, "He will love thee till thou diest."