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I was born in Constantinople. My father was an interpreter at the Sublime Porte [Turkish Court], carrying on at the same time quite a lucrative trade in ottar of roses and silk goods. He gave me a good education, devoting a part of his own time to my instruction, and also employing one of our priests to superintend my studies. At first he designed me to be the successor of his business, but as I developed greater talents than even he had expected, he changed his mind, and, by the advice of his friends, concluded to make a physician of me; inasmuch as a doctor, whose acquirements were greater than those of the quacks on the market-place, was sure of making his way in Constantinople. Many Franks came to our house, and one of them persuaded my father to allow me to go to the city of Paris, in his country, where the best medical education might be had gratuitously. He proposed to take me with him on his return journey, and the trip should cost me nothing. My father, who had traveled widely in his youth, assented to the arrangement, and the Frenchman told me I should have three months in which to get ready.

I was beside myself with joy at the prospect of seeing foreign countries, and waited for the day of our departure with great impatience. At last the Frenchman finished his business, and prepared for the journey. On the evening before we started, my father led me into his bedchamber. There I saw fine apparel and weapons lying on the table. But that which attracted my attention most was a large pile of gold, larger than I had ever before seen. My father embraced me, saying–

“See, my son, I have provided these clothes for your journey. These weapons are also yours; they are the same that your grandfather buckled on me when I went out into the world. I know that you can wield them; but never use them except in self-defense, and then strike hard. My fortune is not large; look, I have divided it into three parts: one is yours, another is for my own support, but the third is a sacred trust, to be well guarded, and meant to serve you in the hour of need.”

Thus spake my good old father, while tears stood in his eyes, perhaps from a presentiment that he would never see me again.

Everything went well on the journey. We soon arrived in the land of the Franks, and six days afterwards we entered the great city of Paris. My friend rented a room for me there, and advised me as to the best disposition to make of my money, which amounted in all to two thousand thalers.

I lived for three years in this city, and learned what a qualified physician should know; but I should be guilty of untruth were I to say that I lived there contentedly, for the customs of this people did not please me. I had but few good friends there, but these few were noble young men. In all this time I had heard nothing from my father. The desire to see my home finally prevailed over all other considerations. I therefore seized a favorable opportunity to return. An embassy from the Franks was bound to the Sublime Porte. I engaged as surgeon in the retinue of the ambassadors, and arrived safely once more in Stamboul.

I found my father’s house closed. The neighbors were astonished to see me, and told me that my father had been dead for two months. The priest who had instructed me in my youth, brought me the key, and alone and bereft I entered the desolate house. I found everything as my father had left it, with the single exception of the gold that he had promised to leave me—that was missing. I asked the priest about it. He made a low bow, and replied:

“Your father died as a holy man, leaving his gold to the church.”

This was incomprehensible to me, yet what should I do? I had no witnesses against the priest, and must console myself with the reflection that he had not also regarded the house and goods of my father as a legacy to the church. This was the first misfortune that happened to me, but from this time forth, stroke followed stroke. My reputation as a physician did not spread, because I could not stoop to advertise myself on the market-place; and, above all, I missed my father, whose recommendation would have secured me admittance to the wealthiest and most influential families, which now never gave a thought to the poor Zaleukos. Then, too, my father’s goods found no sale, as the old customers disappeared after his death, and to gain new ones would require time.

Once, as I was hopelessly thinking over my situation, it occurred to me that I had often seen countrymen of mine wandering through the land of the Franks, and displaying their wares in the squares of the cities. I remembered that their goods found a ready sale, because they came from a strange country, and that the profits on such merchandise were very large. My resolution was taken at once. I sold the homestead, gave a part of the sale money to a trustworthy friend to keep for me, and with the remainder bought such goods as were not common among the Franks; shawls, silk stuff’s, ointments, oils, etc. I then took passage on a ship, and so began my second journey to the land of the Franks.

It seemed as though fortune smiled on me again the moment we left the Dardanelles behind. Our voyage was short and fortunate. I wandered through the cities and towns of the Franks, and everywhere found ready purchasers for my wares. My friend in Stamboul kept forwarding me consignments of fresh goods, and day by day my financial condition improved. When I thought I had made money enough to venture on some larger undertaking, I went to Italy with my goods. I have omitted speaking on one thing that brought me in quite a little sum of money; this was my knowledge of medicine. When I entered a town, I scattered notices announcing the arrival of a Greek physician, whose skill had restored many to health; and my balsams and medicines brought me in many a sequin.

At last I reached the city of Florence. It was my intention to remain some time in this place, partly because the city pleased me, and partly for the reason that I wished to recover from the fatigue of my wanderings. I rented a shop in the Santa Croce quarter, and not far from it, in an inn, I found a suite of beautiful rooms that overlooked a terrace. I then distributed notices that advertised me as a merchant and physician. I had no sooner opened my shop than a stream of customers poured in, and although my prices were rather high, I sold more than others, because I was polite and affable with my customers.

I had passed four days pleasantly in Florence, when one evening, after closing my shop, as I was counting over the profits of the day, I came across a note, in a little box, that I could not remember having put there. I opened the note, and found that it contained a request that I would come to the Ponte Vecchio that night punctually at twelve o’clock. I studied for a long time over the matter; but, as I did not know a soul in Florence, I concluded that somebody wished to lead me secretly to a sick person, as had happened more than once before. I therefore resolved to go; but, by way of precaution, I took along the sword that my father had given me.

Shortly before midnight I started, and soon came to the Ponte Vecchio. I found the bridge deserted, and determined to wait until the person who had invited me there should appear. The night was cold; the moon shone bright, and I looked down at the waves of the Arno gleaming in the moonlight. The church clocks struck twelve. I raised my head, and before me stood a tall man, covered with a red mantle, a corner of which he held before his face. I was somewhat startled at first by his sudden appearance, but collecting myself immediately, said to him:

“If you are the person who ordered me here, tell me what it is you desire?”

The man in the red mantle turned about and said slowly: “Follow me!”

I felt somewhat uneasy about accompanying this stranger, and replied: “Not so, dear sir, until you first tell me where I am to follow you; and you might also show me your face, so that I may assure myself that you mean me no harm.”

The stranger, however, assumed to be indifferent, and said, “If you won’t go, Zaleukos, then don’t!”

This aroused my anger. “Do you think,” exclaimed I, “that a man like me will allow himself to be made sport of by every fool? and that I should wait here in this cold night for nothing?”

In three leaps I reached him, seized him by the cloak, and shouted still louder, at the same time laying my other hand on my sword; but the stranger had already disappeared around the next corner, leaving the cloak in my hand.

By and by my rage subsided; I still had the cloak, and this should furnish the key to this singular adventure. I put it on and started to go home. But before I had gone a hundred steps from the bridge, somebody brushed by me, and whispered to me in French: “Take care, Count; it can’t be done to-night!” But before I could look around, this person was far away, and I saw only a shadow flitting by the houses. I saw at once that these whispered words were meant for the owner of the cloak, and did not in any way concern me; but they shed no light on the mystery.

The next morning I considered what would better be done in the matter. My first thought was to have the mantle cried in the streets, as though I had found it, but in that case the owner could have sent for it by some third party, and I should be no wiser for my pains. While I was thinking of this, I examined the mantle closely. It was of heavy reddish-purple Genoese velvet, with a border of Astrachan fur, and richly embroidered with gold. The splendid appearance of the cloak led me to think of a plan that I resolved to put in execution. I took the cloak to my store, and offered it for sale; but placed such a high price on it that I was sure it would find no purchaser. My purpose in this was to look everybody who asked about the furred cloak directly in the eye. I thought that as I had had a momentary glimpse of the figure of the unknown man after the loss of his cloak, I would know it among a thousand. There were many admirers of the cloak, whose extraordinary beauty attracted all eyes; but none of them resembled the stranger, and not one of them would pay the exorbitant price of two hundred sequins. It struck me as strange that when I asked one and another whether such cloaks were common in Florence, they all answered, “no,” and assured me that they had never before seen such a rich and elegant piece of work.

As evening drew near, a young man, who had often been in my shop, and who had already bid high for the cloak, came in, and threw down a purse of sequins, exclaiming:

“Before God, Zaleukos, I must have your cloak, even if it beggars me.”

He at once began to count out his gold pieces. I was in quite a dilemma. I had only hung up the mantle in order that it might perhaps catch the eye of its owner; and along came a young fool to pay the monstrous price, but what could I do? I finally consented to the bargain, as from one point of view I should be well compensated for my night’s adventure. The youth put on the mantle and left, but turned on the threshold and detached a paper that was fastened to the mantle, which he threw to me, saying: “Here, Zaleukos, is something that evidently does not go with the cloak.”

I took the paper unconcernedly, and found the following words were written on it: “Bring the cloak to the Ponte Vecchio to-night, at the appointed time, and you will receive four hundred sequins.”

I was thunderstruck. I had forfeited this chance, and, had not even attained my purpose. But not stopping to consider the matter, I gathered up the two hundred sequins, and rushed out after the man who had bought the cloak. “Take back your money my good friend,” said I, “and leave me the mantle, as it is impossible for me to part with it.”

At first the young man looked on this as a joke; but when he saw that I was really in earnest, he angrily refused to comply with my demand, treated me as a fool, and thus we speedily came to blows. I was so fortunate as to snatch the cloak away from him in the scuffle, and was hastening away with it, when the young man summoned the police, and we were taken to court. The judge was surprised at the accusation against me, and awarded the cloak to my opponent. But I offered the young man twenty, fifty, eighty, yes, one hundred sequins, over and above his two hundred, if he would leave me in possession of the mantle. My gold accomplished what my entreaties could not. He took my sequins, while I carried away the mantle in triumph, contenting myself with the thought that even if all Florence considered me insane, I knew, better than they, that I should clear something by this transaction.

Impatiently I awaited the night. At the same hour as on the previous night, I went to the Ponte Vecchio with the mantle on my arm. At the last stroke of the clock, a form approached out of the darkness. It was undoubtedly the man I had met the night before.

“Have you the mantle?” I was asked.

“Yes,” replied I; “but it cost me a hundred sequins cash.”

“I know it,” was the reply, “look here, there are four hundred.”

He walked with me up to the broad balustrade of the bridge, and counted out the gold pieces. They glistened brightly in the moonlight; their gleam rejoiced my heart. Oh, I dreamed not that it was the last joy it would ever experience. I put the money in my pocket, and attempted to get a good look at the stranger; but he wore a mask, through which dark eyes darted a formidable look on me.

“I thank you, sir, for your kindness,” said I. “What now do you require from me? But I say to you beforehand that it must not be anything wrong.”

“Your anxiety is needless,” replied he, as he placed the mantle on his shoulders. “I need your services as a doctor; still, not for a living patient, but for a dead one.”

“How can that be?” cried I, in astonishment.

“I came with my sister from a distant country,” began the stranger, beckoning me at the same time to follow him. “I lived with her here at the house of a friend. My sister had been ill, and yesterday she died suddenly. Her relatives will bury her to-morrow. But in accordance with an old custom in our family, all of its members must be buried in the tomb of their ancestors. Many who died in foreign lands were embalmed and brought home. I will permit our relatives here to keep my sister’s body, but I must at least take to my father the head of his daughter, that he may see her once more.”

This custom of cutting off the heads of beloved relatives seemed horrible to me; still I thought best not to offer any objections, lest the stranger should feel insulted. I therefore told him that I was acquainted with the method of embalming the dead, and requested him to conduct me to the deceased. Still I could not refrain from inquiring why all this was to be conducted so secretly and at night? He answered that his relatives, holding his views on this subject to be wicked, would prevent him from carrying them out by day; but when the head was once removed, they could say little more on the subject. Of course he might have brought me the head himself but a natural feeling held him back from removing it.

In the meantime we had reached a large and magnificent house, which my companion pointed out to me as the end of our night’s pilgrimage. We passed by the principal gate, entering by a smaller one, which the stranger closed carefully after him, and ascended a spiral staircase in the darkness. It led into a dimly lighted corridor, from which he gained a room which was lighted by a lamp suspended from the ceiling.

In this room was a bed, on which the body lay. The stranger turned his head away, apparently making an attempt to hide his tears. He pointed to the bed; ordered me to do my work well and quickly, and walked out of the door.

I took out my instruments, which as a physician I always carried with me, and approached the bed. Only the head of the dead girl was visible, but this was so beautiful that I was seized with the deepest pity. The dark hair hung down in long braids; the face was pale; the eyes were closed.

I first made a slight incision in the skin, as is the practice with surgeons when they are about to remove a limb. Then I selected my sharpest knife, and with one stroke cut through the windpipe. But what a tragedy! The girl opened her eyes, closing them again instantly, and with a deep sigh, now, for the first time, breathed out her life, while at the same time a warm stream of blood gushed from the wound. I was sure that I had taken the life of this poor creature; for that she was now dead was beyond question, as there could be no recovery from this wound.

I stood some moments almost stupefied at what had taken place. Had the man in the red mantle betrayed me, or had his sister been lying in a trance? The latter conjecture seemed the most plausible. But I dared not say this to the brother of the girl; therefore I resolved to take the head completely off. But one more groan came from the dying girl, a spasm shook her form, and all was over. Overcome with horror, I rushed out of the room. But the lamp in the corridor had gone out, and there was no trace of my companion. In the darkness, I was compelled to feel my way along the wall to reach the stairway. I finally found it, and descended, slipping and stumbling. Nor was there any one below. I found the door unlocked, and breathed freer when I once more stood upon the street. Urged on by terror, I ran to my rooms, and buried myself in the cushions of my couch.

But sleep fled from me, and the approach of morning warned me to compose myself. It seemed altogether likely to me that the man who had betrayed me into doing this atrocious deed would not inform on me. I resolved to go on as usual with my business, and if possible to assume a cheerful manner. But a new circumstance, that I now noticed for the first time, increased my terror. My cap and girdle, as well as my instruments, were missing, and I was uncertain whether I had left them in the chamber of the murdered girl, or had lost them in my flight. Unfortunately the first supposition seemed the more probable, and thus the murder would be traced to me.

I opened my shop at the usual time. My neighbor, who was a talkative man, came in to see me as usual in the morning.

“What do you say to the horrible tragedy that happened last night?” was his greeting. I acted as if I knew nothing about it. “What, is it possible that you don’t know what the whole city is talking about? Not know that the most beautiful flower of Florence, Bianca, the Governor’s daughter, was murdered during the night? I saw her yesterday, looking so happy as she rode through the streets with her lover; and to-day was to have been her wedding day.”

Every word was a stab in my heart. And how often did I suffer these pangs, as one by one my customers repeated the story, each making it more horrible than the other! And yet none of them could make it as terrible as it had been when presented to my own eyes.

About noon an officer from the court stepped into my shop, and requested me to send the people away.

“Signor Zaleukos,” said he, producing the articles I had missed, “are these things yours?”

I hesitated for a moment whether I should deny all knowledge of them; but as I saw through the half open door my landlord and several acquaintances who could have borne witness against me, I determined not to make the matter worse by a lie, and acknowledged the ownership of the articles. The officer bade me follow him, and led me to a large building, which I soon recognized as the prison. There he showed me to a room, telling me that I should occupy it for the present.

My situation seemed desperate when I came to think it over in the solitude of the prison. The thought that I had committed murder, even though it was done accidentally, kept returning to my mind. Neither could I hide from myself the fact that the glitter of the gold had captivated my senses, or I should never have rushed so blindly into this affair.

Two hours after my arrest I was led out of my chamber. Passing down several steps, we entered a large hall. Twelve men, most of them of advanced age, sat at a long table, covered with a black cloth. On the side of the hall were ranged rows of benches, filled with the aristocracy of Florence. High up, in the galleries the spectators were crowded close together. When I was brought before the black-covered table, a man of dark and sad aspect arose. It was the Governor. He told those assembled that he, being the father of the murdered girl, could not preside over this case, and that he would vacate his seat, for the present, in favor of the oldest senator. The oldest senator was a man of at least ninety years. He was bent with age, and his temples were fringed with thin white hairs; but his eyes were still brilliant, and his voice was clear and strong.

He began by asking me if I confessed to the murder. I besought him to give me his attention, and related fearlessly and in distinct tones what I had done. I noticed that as I proceeded, the Governor first turned pale and then red; and when I had finished, he sprang up in a rage. “What, wretch!” he exclaimed to me, “it is your intention, then, to impute this crime, that you committed in a spirit of avarice, to another?”

The presiding senator reproved him for this outburst, and reminded him that he had of his own accord renounced his right to direct the trial; nor did it appear, he said, that I contemplated robbery, as, by his own admission, nothing was stolen from his daughter. The senator declared to the Governor that he must give an account of his daughter’s past life, as this was the only means of judging whether I had spoken the truth or not. At the same time he would close the court for that day, in order, as he said, to get some further information from the papers of the deceased, which the Governor should turn over to him. I was led back to my prison, where I passed a miserable day, occupied with the eager wish that some connection might be established between the man in the red mantle and the deceased.

Full of expectation, I entered the hall of justice on the following day. There were several letters on the table. The aged senator asked me whether they were in my handwriting. I looked at them, and found that they must have been written by the same hand that wrote me the two notes I had received. I expressed this belief to the senators, but they paid no attention to my opinion, and answered that I both could and did write those notes myself, as the signature at the end of the letters was certainly a Z, the initial letter of my name. And then the letters contained threats against the deceased, and warnings against the wedding which was about to take place.

The Governor seemed to have made some strange disclosures about me, as I was on this day treated more sternly and suspiciously. To justify myself, I called for all the papers that were to be found in my room. But I was told that search had already been made there, and nothing found. When the court broke up, my hope had entirely vanished; and when I was led back to the hall on the third day, the verdict was communicated to me. I had been convicted of willful murder, and sentenced to death. To this, then, I had come at last! Deprived of everything that was still dear to me on earth, far from my home, I should die innocent of crime, and, in the bloom of my youth, under an ax!

I was sitting in my lonely prison on the evening of the day that had decided my fate, with my hopes all dissipated, and my thoughts earnestly turned on death, when my prison door opened, and a man entered, who regarded me long and silently. “And thus I find you once more, Zaleukos?” said he. I had not recognized him by the dull gleam of my lamp, but the tone of his voice awoke old memories in me. It was Valetty, one of the few friends I had made during my studies in Paris. He said that happening to come to Florence, where his father, who was a man of prominence, lived, he heard of my story; he had come to see me, to learn from my own lips how I had come to commit so terrible a crime. I told him the whole story. He seemed very much astonished, and implored me to tell him, my only friend, the whole truth, and not die with a lie on my lips, I swore to him by everything that was sacred that I had spoken the truth, and that the only burden on my conscience was that, dazed by the glitter of the gold, I had not perceived the improbabilities in the stranger’s story. “Then you did not know Bianca?” asked he. I assured him that I had never seen her before. Valetty then told me that a deep secret hung over the deed, that the Governor had passed sentence on me very hastily, and there was a rumor among the people that I had known Bianca for a long time, and had murdered her out of revenge for her approaching marriage with another. I remarked to him that all this might apply to the man in the red mantle, but that I was unable to prove his participation in the deed. Valetty embraced me, weeping, and promised to make every effort to save my life. I had but little hope, yet I knew that Valetty was a wise man and experienced in the laws, and that he would do his best to save me.

For two long days I remained in uncertainty. At last Valetty appeared. “I bring you consolation, even though it be painful,” said he. “You will live and be set at liberty; but with the loss of a hand.”

Joyfully I thanked my friend for my life. He told me that the Governor was inexorably opposed to opening the case again, but that finally, in order not to appear unjust, he agreed that if a similar case could be found in any books of Florentine history, then my punishment should be regulated by the punishment there recorded. Valetty and his father had thereupon looked through the old books by day and night, and finally found a case the exact counterpart of mine. The punishment there awarded was stated thus: “His left hand shall be amputated, his goods confiscated, and he himself banished forever.” This was now to be my punishment; and I had to prepare myself for the painful ordeal that awaited me. But I will not dwell on that terrible hour when I stood on the public square, laid my hand on the block, and felt my own blood stream over me.

Valetty took me to his own house until I had recovered; then he generously provided me with money for my journey; as all that I had acquired in my years of labor was forfeited to the State. I traveled from Florence to Sicily, and there embarked on the first ship for Constantinople. My hopes were turned upon the money I had given into the keeping of my friend; I also asked permission to live with him, but he astounded me with the question, why I did not occupy my own house? He informed me that a strange man had bought a house in my name in the Greek quarter, and had told the neighbors that I would soon be there to take possession of it. I immediately went there with my friend, and was warmly welcomed by all my old acquaintances. An old merchant gave me a letter, left by the man who had bought the house for me.

The letter was as follows: “Zaleukos, two hands will be always ready to provide so tirelessly for you that you will not feel the loss of one. The house that you see, and all it contains, is yours; and every year you will be given enough to place you in the ranks of your wealthiest countrymen. May you forgive him who is more unfortunate than yourself.”

I suspected who had written this; and the merchant replied to my question that he had taken the man to be a Frank, and that he wore a red mantle. I knew enough to own to myself that the stranger was not entirely destitute of noble sentiments. I found my new house fitted up in the very best manner, and there was also a shop stocked with wares finer than I had ever owned before.

Ten years have passed since then; yet, more from habit than necessity, I continue to make these commercial journeys. I have never since visited that country where I met with my misfortune. Every year I receive a thousand gold pieces. But though it rejoices me to know that the unfortunate stranger has some noble traits of character, it is impossible for him to cure the sorrow of my soul, which is perpetually haunted by the terrible vision of the murdered Bianca.

* * * * *

Spoiler: In the above story, we learn little about who the mysterious stranger was and why he really wanted the woman’s head. Hauff’s fairytales were told as the inner content of frame stories… this one a tale told by a Greek merchant in a caravan crossing a desert. Coincidentally, the mysterious stranger is a fellow traveller. His identity and motive (revenge) are revealed in the outer story as the journey ends. This segment is included below:

… Zaleukos showed the stranger a good caravansary, and invited him to take dinner with him. The stranger accepted the invitation, and promised to come as soon as he had made some changes in his dress.

The Greek made every preparation to entertain his guest, for whom he had acquired a strong liking on the journey; and when the dishes were all arranged in order, he sat down to await the coming of his guest.

At last he heard slow and heavy steps in the hall that led to his room. He arose to go and meet him and welcome him on the threshold; but no sooner had he opened the door, than he stepped back horrified, for that terrible man with the red mantle stepped towards him! He looked at him again; there was no illusion; the same tall, commanding figure, the mask through which the dark eyes shone, the red mantle with the gold embroidery, were only too closely associated with the most terrible hours of his life.

Conflicting emotions surged in Zaleukos’s breast. He had long since become reconciled to this picture of memory, and had forgiven him who had injured him; yet the appearance of the man himself opened all his wounds afresh; all those painful hours when he had suffered almost the pangs of death—the remorse that had poisoned his young life—all this swept over his soul in the flight of a moment.

“What do you want, monster?” exclaimed the Greek, as the apparition stood motionless on the threshold. “Vanish quickly, before I curse you!”

“Zaleukos!” spoke a well-known voice, from beneath the mask, “Zaleukos! is it thus you receive your guest?” The speaker removed the mask, and threw the mantle back; it was Selim Baruch, the stranger.

But Zaleukos was not yet quieted. He shuddered at the stranger, for only too plainly had he recognized the unknown man of the Ponte Vecchio. But the old habit of hospitality prevailed; he silently beckoned to the stranger to take a seat at the table.

“I perceive your thoughts,” said the stranger, after they were seated. “Your eyes look inquiringly at me. I could have remained silent, and never more appeared to your vision; but I owe you an explanation, and therefore I ventured to appear to you in my old form, knowing that I run the risk of your cursing me. But you once told me: The religion of my fathers commands me to love him, and then he must be more unhappy than I. Believe that, my friend, and listen to my vindication.

“I must begin far back, in order to make my story quite clear. I was born in Alexandria, of Christian parents. My father was the French consul there, and was the younger son of a famous old French family. From my tenth year up, I was under the care of my uncle, in France, and left my fatherland some years after the breaking out of the Revolution, with my uncle, who no longer felt safe in the land of his ancestors, in order to find a refuge with my parents across the sea. We landed in Alexandria, hopeful of finding in my parents’ home that quiet and peace that no longer obtained in France. The outside storms of this excitable period had not, it is true, extended to this point, but from an unexpected quarter came the blow that crushed our family to the ground. My brother, a young man full of promise, and private secretary to my father, had but recently married the daughter of a Florentine nobleman who lived in my father’s neighborhood. Two days before our arrival, my brother’s bride disappeared; and neither our family, nor yet her father, could discover the slightest trace of her. We finally came to the conclusion that she had ventured too far away for a walk, and had fallen into the hands of brigands. This belief would have been a consolation to my brother, in comparison with the truth that was only too soon made known to us. The faithless woman had eloped with a young Neapolitan, whom she had been in the habit of meeting at her father’s house. My brother, terribly excited by this act, used his utmost endeavors to bring the guilty one to account; but in vain. His attempts in this direction, which had aroused attention in Florence and Naples, only served to bring down misfortune on us all. The Florentine nobleman returned to his country under the pretext of assisting my brother, but with the real design of destroying us all. He put an end to all the investigations instituted by my brother in Florence, and used his influence so effectually that my father and brother fell under the suspicion of their government, were imprisoned in the most outrageous manner, and taken to France, where they were guillotined. My mother went crazy, and only after ten long months did death release her from her terrible condition. But she recovered her sanity a few days before her death. I was thus left all alone in the world, but only one thought occupied my soul, only one thought overshadowed my grief: it was the powerful flame of revenge that my mother kindled in my breast during the last hours of her life.

“As I have said, she recovered her senses towards the last. She called me to her side and spoke quietly of our fate and of her approaching death. Then she sent everybody out of the room, raised herself with a spirited air from her poor couch, and said that I could win her blessing if I would swear to carry out what she should confide to me. Influenced by the dying words of my mother, I bound myself with an oath to do her bidding. She broke out in imprecations against the Florentine and his daughter, and required me, under the penalty of incurring her curse, to revenge our unfortunate family on him. She died in my arms. The thought of revenge had long slumbered in my soul; now it was aroused to action. I collected the balance of my patrimony, and resolved to risk everything on my revenge.

“I was soon in Florence, where I kept as quiet as possible. The difficulty of executing my plan was much increased by the situation in which I found my enemy. The old Florentine had become Governor, and had the power, should he have the least suspicion of my presence, to destroy me. An incident occurred just then that was of great assistance to me. One evening I saw a man passing along the street, in a familiar livery. His unsteady gait, sullen look, and manner of muttering Santo Sacramento and Maledetto diavolo, assured me that it was Pietro, a servant of the Florentine’s, whom I had known in Alexandria. I had no doubt that it was his master whom he was cursing, and I therefore determined to make use of his present frame of mind for my own benefit. He seemed very much surprised to see me in Florence, and complained to me that since his master had become Governor he could do nothing to suit him; so that my gold, together with his anger, brought him over to my side. The most difficult part of my plan had now been provided for. I had in my pay a man who could open the door of my enemy to me at any hour, and now my revenge seemed near its accomplishment. The life of the old Florentine seemed to me of too little account to offset the destruction of our family: he must lose the idol of his heart, his daughter Bianca. Was it not she who treated my brother so shamefully? Was it not she who was the chief cause of our misfortunes? The news that she was about to be married a second time was very welcome to my revengeful heart. This would but heighten the vengeance of my blow. It was settled in my mind that she must die. But I myself shrank from the deed, and I did not credit Pietro with nerve enough; so we looked about for a man who could accomplish the work. I did not dare approach any of the Florentines, as none of them would have dared to undertake such a thing against the Governor. It was then that the scheme I afterward carried out, occurred to Pietro, who at the same time pitched upon you, a stranger and physician, as being the most suitable person to do the deed. The rest of the story you know. The only danger to the success of my scheme lay in your sagacity and honesty; hence the affair with the mantle.

“Pietro opened the side gate of the Governor’s palace for us, and would have shown us out as secretly, had not he and I fled, horrified by the terrible sight we saw through a crack in the door. Pursued by terror and remorse, I ran some two hundred paces, and sank down on the steps of a church. There I collected my thoughts, and my first one was of you and your fate, should you be found in the house. I stole to the palace, but could find no trace of either you or Pietro. The side gate was open, so I could at least hope that you had taken advantage of the opportunity to flee. But when the day broke, fear of discovery and a sensation of remorse drove me from Florence. I hastened to Rome. But imagine my consternation when, in the course of a few days, this story reached Rome, with the additional report that the murderer, a Greek physician, had been captured! I returned to Florence with sad apprehensions, for, if my revenge had before seemed too strong, I cursed it now, as it would have been purchased too dearly with your life. I arrived in Florence on the day you lost your hand. I will be silent over what I felt as I saw you ascend the scaffold and suffer so heroically. But as your blood streamed out, I made the resolve to see that the rest of your life should be passed in comfort. What happened afterwards, you know. It only remains for me to tell why I made this journey across the desert with you. Like a heavy burden the thought pressed on me that you had not yet forgiven me; therefore I resolved to pass some days, with you, and at last give you an account of the motives that had influenced my action.”

The Greek had listened silently to his guest, and when he had finished, with a gentle expression he offered him his hand. “I knew well that you must be more unhappy than I, for that cruel deed, like a black cloud, will forever darken your life. As for myself, I forgive you from my heart. But permit me one more question: How did you happen to be in the desert in your present character? What did you do after buying me the house in Constantinople?”

“I went back to Alexandria. Hatred of all human kind raged in my breast, but especially hatred of those nations which are called civilized. Believe me, I was better pleased with my Moslems. I had been in Alexandria only a few months, when it was invaded by my countrymen. I saw in them only the executioners of my father and brother; therefore I gathered some young people of my acquaintance, who entertained similar views, and joined the brave Mameluke, who became the terror of the French army. When the campaign was ended, I could not bring myself to return to the arts of peace. With a few friends of similar tendencies, I lived an unsettled fugitive life, devoted to battle and the chase. I live contentedly with these people, who honor me as their prince; for if my Asiatics are not so civilized as your Europeans, yet envy and slander, selfishness and ambition are not their characteristics.”

Zaleukos thanked the stranger for his communication, but he did not hide from him his opinion that it would be far better for one of his rank and culture, were he to live and work in Christian and European countries. He took the stranger’s hand, and invited him to go with him, and to live and die with him.

Zaleukos’s guest was deeply moved. “From this I know,” said he, “that you have entirely forgiven me, that you even love me. Receive my heartfelt thanks.”

He sprang up, and stood in all his majesty before the Greek, who shrank back at the warlike appearance, the dark glistening eyes, the deep mysterious voice of his guest. “Your proposal is good,” continued he; “any other person might be persuaded; I can not accept it! My horse is saddled, my followers await me: farewell, Zaleukos!”

The friends whom destiny had so strangely united, embraced each other before parting.