After ordering a variety of dishes (which never came) to be placed on the table, and discussing the merits of each one, the Barmecide declared that having dined so well, they would now proceed to take their wine.  To this my brother at first objected, declaring that it was forbidden; but on the Barmecide insisting that it was out of the question that he should drink by himself, he consented to take a little.  The Barmecide, however, pretended to fill their glasses so often, that my brother feigned that the wine had gone into his head, and struck the Barmecide such a blow on the head, that he fell to the ground.  Indeed, he raised his hand to strike him a second time, when the Barmecide cried out that he was mad, upon which my brother controlled himself, and apologised and protested that it was all the fault of the wine he had drunk.  At this the Barmecide, instead of being angry, began to laugh, and embraced him heartily.  “I have long been seeking,” he exclaimed, “a man of your description, and henceforth my house shall be yours.  You have had the good grace to fall in with my humour, and to pretend to eat and to drink when nothing was there.  Now you shall be rewarded by a really good supper.”

Then he clapped his hands, and all the dishes were brought that they had tasted in imagination before and during the repast, slaves sang and played on various instruments.  All the while Schacabac was treated by the Barmecide as a familiar friend, and dressed in a garment out of his own wardrobe.

Twenty years passed by, and my brother was still living with the Barmecide, looking after his house, and managing his affairs.  At the end of that time his generous benefactor died without heirs, so all his possessions went to the prince.  They even despoiled my brother of those that rightly belonged to him, and he, now as poor as he had ever been in his life, decided to cast in his lot with a caravan of pilgrims who were on their way to Mecca.  Unluckily, the caravan was attacked and pillaged by the Bedouins, and the pilgrims were taken prisoners.  My brother became the slave of a man who beat him daily, hoping to drive him to offer a ransom, although, as Schacabac pointed out, it was quite useless trouble, as his relations were as poor as himself.  At length the Bedouin grew tired of tormenting, and sent him on a camel to the top of a high barren mountain, where he left him to take his chance.  A passing caravan, on its way to Bagdad, told me where he was to be found, and I hurried to his rescue, and brought him in a deplorable condition back to the town.

“This,”—­continued the barber,—­“is the tale I related to the Caliph, who, when I had finished, burst into fits of laughter.

“Well were you called `the Silent,’” said he; “no name was ever better deserved.  But for reasons of my own, which it is not necessary to mention, I desire you to leave the town, and never to come back.”