When the Caliph had ended, the owl thanked him and said: ‘You hear my
story, and own that I am no less unfortunate than yourselves. My father
is the King of the Indies. I, his only daughter, am named Lusa.
That magician Kaschnur, who enchanted you, has been the cause of my
misfortunes too. He came one day to my father and demanded my hand for
his son Mirza. My father--who is rather hasty--ordered him to be thrown
downstairs. The wretch not long after managed to approach me under
another form, and one day, when I was in the garden, and asked for some
refreshment, he brought me--in the disguise of a slave--a draught which
changed me at once to this horrid shape. Whilst I was fainting with
terror he transported me here, and cried to me with his awful voice:
“There shall you remain, lonely and hideous, despised even by the
brutes, till the end of your days, or till some one of his own free will
asks you to be his wife. Thus do I avenge myself on you and your proud
father.”
‘Since then many months have passed away. Sad and lonely do I live like
any hermit within these walls, avoided by the world and a terror even
to animals; the beauties of nature are hidden from me, for I am blind by
day, and it is only when the moon sheds her pale light on this spot that
the veil falls from my eyes and I can see.’ The owl paused, and once
more wiped her eyes with her wing, for the recital of her woes had drawn
fresh tears from her.
The Caliph fell into deep thought on hearing this story of the Princess.
‘If I am not much mistaken,’ said he, ‘there is some mysterious
connection between our misfortunes, but how to find the key to the
riddle is the question.’
The owl answered: ‘Oh, my Lord! I too feel sure of this, for in my
earliest youth a wise woman foretold that a stork would bring me
some great happiness, and I think I could tell you how we might save
ourselves.’ The Caliph was much surprised, and asked her what she meant.
‘The Magician who has made us both miserable,’ said she, ‘comes once a
month to these ruins. Not far from this room is a large hall where he is
in the habit of feasting with his companions. I have often watched them.
They tell each other all about their evil deeds, and possibly the magic
word which you have forgotten may be mentioned.’
‘Oh, dearest Princess!’ exclaimed the Caliph, ‘say, when does he come,
and where is the hall?’
The owl paused a moment and then said: ‘Do not think me unkind, but I
can only grant your request on one condition.’
‘Speak, speak!’ cried Chasid; ‘command, I will gladly do whatever you
wish!’
‘Well,’ replied the owl, ‘you see I should like to be free too; but this
can only be if one of you will offer me his hand in marriage.’
The storks seemed rather taken aback by this suggestion, and the Caliph
beckoned to his Vizier to retire and consult with him.
When they were outside the door the Caliph said: ‘Grand Vizier, this is
a tiresome business. However, you can take her.’
‘Indeed!’ said the Vizier; ‘so that when I go home my wife may scratch
my eyes out! Besides, I am an old man, and your Highness is still young
and unmarried, and a far more suitable match for a young and lovely
Princess.’
‘That’s just where it is,’ sighed the Caliph, whose wings drooped in
a dejected manner; ‘how do you know she is young and lovely? I call it
buying a pig in a poke.’
They argued on for some time, but at length, when the Caliph saw plainly
that his Vizier would rather remain a stork to the end of his days than
marry the owl, he determined to fulfil the condition himself. The owl
was delighted. She owned that they could not have arrived at a better
time, as most probably the magicians would meet that very night.
She then proceeded to lead the two storks to the chamber. They passed
through a long dark passage till at length a bright ray of light shone
before them through the chinks of a half-ruined wall. When they reached
it the owl advised them to keep very quiet. Through the gap near which
they stood they could with ease survey the whole of the large hall. It
was adorned with splendid carved pillars; a number of coloured lamps
replaced the light of day. In the middle of the hall stood a round table
covered with a variety of dishes, and about the table was a divan on
which eight men were seated. In one of these bad men the two recognised
the pedlar who had sold the magic powder. The man next him begged him to
relate all his latest doings, and amongst them he told the story of the
Caliph and his Vizier.
‘And what kind of word did you give them?’ asked another old sorcerer.
‘A very difficult Latin word; it is “Mutabor.”’