“Commander of the faithful,” answered Mesrour, putting on a serious countenance, “it is Nouzhatoul-aouadat who is dead, for the loss of whom About Hassan is as much afflicted as when he appeared before your majesty.”  The caliph not giving him time to pursue his story, interrupted him, and cried out, laughing heartily, “Good news!  Zobeide, your mistress, was a moment ago possessed of the palace of paintings, and now it is mine.  She staked it against my garden of pleasures, since you went; therefore you could not have done me greater pleasure.  I will take care to reward you:  but give me a true account of what you saw.”

“Commander of the faithful,” said Mesrour, “when I came to Abou Hassan’s apartment, I found the door open, and he was bewailing the death of his wife.  He sat at the head of the deceased, who was laid out in the middle of the room, with her feet towards Mecca, and was covered with the piece of brocade which your majesty presented to Abou Hassan.  After I had expressed the share I took in his grief, I went and lifted up the pall at the head, and knew Nouzhatoul-aouadat, though hr face was much swelled and changed.  I exhorted Abou Hassan in the best manner I could to be comforted; and when I came away, told him I would attend at his wife’s funeral, and desired him not to remove the corpse till I came.  This is all I can tell your majesty.”  “I ask no more,” said the caliph, laughing heartily, “and I am well satisfied with your exactness.”  Then addressing himself to Zobeide, “Well, madam,” said he, “have you yet any thing to say against so certain a truth?  Will you still believe that Nouzhatoul-aouadat is alive, and that Abou Hassan is dead?  And will you not own that you have lost your wager?”

“How, sir,” replied Zobeide, who would not believe one word Mesrour said, “do you think that I regard that impertinent fellow of a slave, who knows not what he says?  I am not blind or mad.  With these eyes I saw Nouzhatoul-aouadat in the greatest affliction; I spoke to her myself, and she told me that her husband was dead.”  “Madam,” replied Mesrour, “I swear to you by your own life, and that of the commander of the faithful, which are both dear to me, that Nouzhatoul-aouadat is dead, and Abou Hassan is living.”

“Thou liest, base despicable slave,” said Zobeide in a rage, “and I will confound thee immediately.”  Clapping her hands together, she called her women, who all approached.  “Come hither,” said the princess to them, “and speak the truth.  Who was that who came and spoke with me a little before the caliph entered?” The women all answered that it was poor afflicted Nouzhatoul-aouadat.  “And what,” added she, addressing herself to her treasurer, “did I order you to give her?” “Madam,” answered the treasurer, “I gave Nouzhatoul-aouadat, by your orders, a purse of a hundred pieces of gold and a piece of brocade, which she carried away with her.”  “Well, then, sorry slave,” said Zobeide to Mesrour, in passion, “what have you to say to all this?  Whom do you think now I ought to believe, you or my treasurer, my women, and myself?”