Osmyn was on the point of obeying this order, when the master of the
house, who had witnessed this scene from a window, came down, called his
slaves, and ordered them to receive the unfortunate man, to procure him
clothes, a bed, and all he was in need of. "Misery," said he, "misery is
for him who revels in the presence of the poor, and suffers them to
plead for assistance in vain; and misfortune for the rich who, cloyed
with luxuries, refuse a morsel of bread to a famishing stranger. Poor
traveller, go and repose thyself, and may the Prophet send thee
refreshing slumbers, that thou mayst for a time forget thy sufferings."

"Oh Heaven!" cried Osmyn, "what voice strikes my ear? It is the
voice--the voice of Zambri!"

"Zambri! what! do you know him?"

"Heavens! do I know him?--Do I know my brother?"

"You my brother!" cried Zambri in his turn. "Can it be? That voice--those
features, disfigured by poverty and misery. Ah! I recognise you, my dear
Osmyn!"

No more need be said: he flew to embrace his brother; but Osmyn,
overcome by the excess of his joy, fell senseless at his feet.

He was conveyed into the finest apartment of the villa, every assistance
was afforded him, and he was soon restored. Zambri ordered him
magnificent apparel, and taking him by the hand, conducted him to the
banquet, and presented him to his friends. After the repast, Osmyn
related all the vicissitudes of his fortune, his long suffering, his
rapid glory, the jealousy and perfidy of his enemies, "But thou," added