The Kizlar-Aga withdrew. Achmed muttered to himself:

"But another second, but another moment, but another instant long enough
for a parting kiss, but another hour, but another night--a night full of
blissful dreams--and it will be quite time enough to hasten to the cold
and icy battlefield." And with that he hastened towards the harem.

There sat the Sultana with dishevelled tresses and garments rent
asunder, without ornaments, without fine raiment, in sober
cinder-coloured mourning weeds. Before her, on a table, stood a small
goblet filled with a bluish transparent fluid. That fluid was
poison--not a doubt of it. Her slave-girls lay scattered about on the
floor around her, weeping and wailing and tearing their faces and their
snowy bosoms with their long nails.

The Padishah approached her and tenderly enfolded her in his arms.

"Wherefore wouldst thou die out of my life, oh, thou light of my days?"

The Sultana covered her face with her hands.

"Can the rose blossom in winter-time? Do not its leaves fall when the
blasts of autumn blow upon it?"

"But the winter that must wither thee is still far distant."

"Oh, Achmed! when anyone's star falls from Heaven, does the world ever
ask, wert thou young? wert thou beautiful? didst thou enjoy life?
Mashallah! such a one is dead already. My star shone upon thy face, and
if thou dost turn thy face from me, then must I droop and wither."