Twice more did the forbearance and love of the sultan induce him to repeat the question; but I remained silent. He waved his hands, I was seized by the mutes, and the bow-string encircled my neck. All was ready, they awaited but the last signal to tighten the fatal cord. "Once more, Zara, will you answer; or brave me to your destruction?" "Sultan, I will at least speak to you before I die. I only wish to declare my fidelity and my love to you in my last moments, to tell you that I forgive you for that which, when the truth is known, you will never forgive yourself. One moment more. Let me remove this jewelled chain from my neck, now superseded by the bowstring. You presented it to me when convinced of my attachment and my love. Take it, sultan, and when you find one as faithful and as true, present it to her; but until you do so, wear it in memory of Zara. And now let me throw my veil over those features which have always beamed with love and delight on you, that when I am dead, and you call them to your recollection, they may be as you have been used to see them, and not black with convulsions and distorted with agony. My lord, my dear and honoured lord, farewell!" The sultan was deeply moved; he turned away his head, and covered his face with one hand, while the other dropped at his side from the intensity of his feelings. Although it never was so intended, this dropping of his hand was considered as the signal for my death. The string was tightened, and buried itself, cutting deeply into the flesh of a neck once as fair and smooth as the polished marble of Patras. For the first moments my torture was excruciating--my eyes were forcing out of their sockets--my tongue protruded from my mouth--my brain appeared to be on fire--but all recollection soon departed. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Staffir Allah! God forgive me! but are you not laughing at our beards, old scarecrow? What think you, Mustapha?" continued the pacha, turning to him. "What is all this but _lies_?" "Lies!" screamed the old woman. "Lies! you tell me they are lies! Well, well--the time has been. Pacha, after what I have suffered by telling the truth all my life, it is hard, in my old age, to be told that I lie: but you shall be convinced;" and the old woman put her hands up to the shrivelled, pendent skin of her neck, and stretching it out smooth, showed a deep blue mark, which encircled it like a necklace. "Now are you satisfied?" The pacha nodded his head to Mustapha, as if convinced; and then said, "You may proceed." "Yes, I may proceed; but I tell you pacha, that if you doubt what I say once more, I will return your twenty pieces of gold, and hold my tongue. I proved that I could do it as a young woman, and we become more obstinate as we get old." "That is no lie," observed Mustapha. "Continue, old woman, and we will not interrupt you with doubts again."