Chapter XI: Book V: Hatim’s journey to the mountain of Nida (1)

The historians inform us, that as Hatim was journeying toward the desert of Nida he continued to ask his way in every city and town through which he passed. In the course of six months, as he was approaching a large city, he saw all the inhabitants assembled in a spacious plain outside the walls. Hatim thought, “What can be the cause of this concourse? I must go and inquire.” With this view, he was hastening towards them; and as soon as the people saw him, they exclaimed, “Welcome, stranger; may your arrival be happy; we are waiting for you.”

When Hatim found himself amidst the crowd, he looked around him, and saw, to his surprise, large tables furnished with food and drink of every variety. He also observed a coffin laid out in state, and surrounded by the relatives of the deceased. The chief of the assembly, addressing Hatim, said, “Such are our customs, stranger, that when any of our people die, whether rich or poor, we thus assemble in the plain without the city, and prepare a banquet of the most delicious viands. At the same time, it is one of our rules that we taste not of the food, nor bury our dead, till the arrival of a stranger among us. When a stranger arrives, we make him first eat of our fare, after which we ourselves feast. This is now the seventh day that we have been here without attaining the object of our expectation. Every day we had the feast ready; and when evening came, and the stranger arrived not, we sent the food back to the city for our wives and children, for they are not prohibited from eating. As for ourselves, we have neither eaten bread nor drunk water for the last seven days. You may guess, then, noble stranger, with what joy we this day hail your arrival. We shall now bury our dead and break our long fast.”

Hatim observed to them, “What becomes of your dead, and how do you contrive to live should it so happen that no stranger visits you for the space of a month?”--“That,” replied they, “is a rare, nay, an improbable case, for we are never above a week without seeing a stranger; and if it should happen that none comes, we are allowed to break our fast on the fifteenth day, and thus we do every fifteenth day till the stranger arrives: such is our law. With regard to our dead, no decay takes place till the end of at least a month.”--“And may I ask,” rejoined Hatim, “what would you do with your dead, if you should not be visited by a stranger even in the course of a month?”--“If, by the expiration of that period,” replied they, “the dead body should become offensive, we bury it, and in such a case all the inhabitants of the city, both men and women, are made to fast by day for six months after, and we are allowed only to take a little food after sunset. This penance we undergo for the good of the soul of the deceased; for when the body thus putrifies, we look upon it as a proof that the deceased had led a sinful life, and we accordingly offer up our prayers in his behalf before the throne of the Most High.”

Hatim still continued his inquiries, saying, “But if in these six months of fasting another should die, what would you do?”--“We should keep him in the same way,” they replied, “till the arrival of a stranger among us, or failing this at the end of a month, we should bury him if necessary, and betake ourselves to fasting and prayer on his behalf till the expiration of six months, after which we should hold a feast, and bestow alms in abundance on the poor of our city, and give gifts to all that are in need, and do acts of kindness towards one another. We then walk in procession to the tomb of the deceased, where we again distribute money among the poor and helpless, after which we resume our usual occupations.”

While Hatim stood wrapt in wonder at this singular custom, the people bore the dead body into the interior of the house, and having stretched it on an elegant couch, they embalmed it with costly perfumes, and burnt frankincense around it; after which they brought in the food that they were to eat, and carried the same seven times around the couch. This done, the food was brought out and placed on tables, when the chief of the assembly, addressing Hatim, said, “Worthy stranger, stretch forth thine hand and taste of our food. Thy compliance will greatly oblige us, as we shall then be at liberty to appease our hunger.” Hatim ate of the food as requested, and after him all the people sat down and ate. The remains of the feast they sent back to the city for their women and children to feed on. They then changed their raiment, each clothing himself in clean apparel; and having sent the clothes they had cast off to the fullers, they took up the dead body and proceeded towards the desert.

As they were about to depart, the chief said to Hatim, “Brave stranger, I hope you are not to leave us immediately; if, then, you choose to rest a few days in our city, every attention shall be paid to you.” Hatim willingly accepted the invitation; and having entered the city, a splendid mansion was appointed for his residence, and the choicest food and drink placed before him. Nor was this all; damsels of surpassing beauty were sent to entertain him with their enchanting society.

Hatim could not help wondering in his own mind at the strange customs of the city where he happened to arrive; however, he ate temperately of the food presented to him, and paid not the least regard to the beautiful damsels. In the course of a week the governor of the city, informed of Hatim’s affable disposition and temperate habits, sent for him; and after the usual salutations, said to him, “Noble stranger, I am so delighted with the accounts I hear of you, that I beg of you to take up your residence among us, and my own daughter shall be your wife.” Hatim, having thanked the governor for his kind offer, said that he had business on hand which admitted of no delay. “At least,” resumed the governor, “let me know the object of your journey, and I will do my utmost to aid you, or even accompany you in person, if it will in any way serve you.”--“Truly, sir,” said Hatim, “I am indebted to you for your goodness, but I should be sorry to let any one accompany me through the fatigues and perils which await me.”--“At all events,” said the governor, “let me know your business.”--“Willingly,” replied Hatim; “and if you can direct me on my way, it will serve me as much as if you accompanied me.”

Hatim then related every circumstance connected with Husn Banu, and her lover Munir; and how he had himself solved four of the lady’s questions, and was then in quest of the solution of the fifth, which was, _to bring an account of the mountain of Nida_. “It is now,” concluded Hatim, “six months since I left Shahabad; I have wandered through many cities, and made inquiries of every person I met, but no one has been able to give the necessary information. If you, noble sir, can tell me where the mountain of Nida is situated, it will serve me as effectually as if you accompanied me thither.”

The governor was a man of years, and possessed of much information; he remembered, then, of having heard from the learned that a mountain of this name, of immense altitude, was situated towards the south in the regions of Zulmat. He informed Hatim of the same, and further, that there was close to the mountain a city of the same name, where the people were immortal; “in these regions,” concluded he, “diseases and death are unknown, nor is there a tomb to be seen in all the place.” On hearing this statement, Hatim was highly delighted, and said, “Thither I must go as soon as possible.”--“But how,” rejoined his aged friend, “can you go there unattended?”--“God will be my guide,” replied Hatim.

The governor then offered Hatim gold and costly jewels, of which he accepted a small portion for defraying his expense by the way; and having caused the rest to be distributed among the poor, he resumed his journey. In the course of three months he arrived at a large city, around which he saw no tombs or receptacles for the dead, whereby he was satisfied that it was the city alluded to by his informant and benefactor. When Hatim entered the city, the people crowded around him, and began to question him, saying, “Tell us, stranger, whence are you, and where are you going?”--“I am,” replied Hatim, “from Shahabad, and I am on my way to the mountain of Nida.”

“Stranger,” resumed the people, “abandon such thoughts: the mountain of Nida is far distant, and the road full of danger.”--“I fear no danger,” replied Hatim, “for my trust is in God, who is my conductor.”--“At least,” said they, “rest here for the night, as you are much fatigued.” Hatim accepted their hospitable invitation, and there reposed for the night.

It happened on that day that one of the inhabitants of the city fell sick; whereupon his relations assembled and instantly killed him, after which they divided his flesh into equal portions among themselves in order to be eaten. One of the people whom Hatim had conversed with on entering the city, being a relation to the slaughtered, received his portion of the flesh, and had it roasted for his evening meal in the house where Hatim resided. He then brought in a jug of water and two loaves, along with the flesh of his relation, and with eager hospitality addressed Hatim, saying, “Stranger, I invite you to partake of my repast, for never in your life have you tasted of similar fare.”--“I believe,” replied Hatim, “I have eaten of the flesh of every granivorous animal on the face of the earth; may I ask what animal has furnished this dish, since you imagine that I have not yet seen the like?” The man triumphantly replied, “What you say may be very true, but have you ever eaten of the flesh of man, for such is the dish now before you!”

On hearing this, Hatim remained horror-struck, and thought within himself that this must be the city of the cannibals of whom he had before heard accounts, and that most probably they killed and ate every stranger that came near them. His host seemed to read his thoughts, and accordingly broke silence, saying, “Yes, this is the city of the cannibals, and the time is coming, stranger, when some of us shall feast upon you.” Hatim, thus aroused, said to the man, “Is it possible, sir, that you kill the helpless stranger, and then devour him? Have you not the fear of God before your eyes?”--“Brave Arab!” resumed the cannibal, “we are not quite so bad as you suppose, for we do not slay the traveller who comes among us knowing nothing of our customs.”--“You told me just now,” replied Hatim, “that this is man’s flesh before me; I concluded that it must have been that of a stranger, and not of one of your own tribe.”--“Quite the contrary,” rejoined the man of hospitality; “it is the custom of our city that when any one falls sick, his relations assemble and kill him, in order to put him beyond suffering.”--“Accursed be such inhuman practices,” replied Hatim; “know you not that the Creator of the universe at one time visits his creatures with sickness; and again, when it pleases his divine will, bestows health? What, then, can be more heinous than to slay the sick with your own hands? The shedding of the innocent blood of so many thousands is a deed most revolting to humanity; nay, it is a sin for human eyes to look upon you.”

Hatim having thus spoken, rose up and fled into the desert. He halted not for the whole of that night, nor next day till sunset, when he thought himself far enough removed from the accursed city. Having slackened his pace a little, he continued to proceed leisurely till the following day, when the pangs of hunger quite overpowered him. Necessity forced him to commit what at another time he would have considered highly cruel--he killed a young fawn; and having kindled a fire with a flint, he sat down to dress some food. Meanwhile a lion stalked up to him; and Hatim, nothing daunted, said to the lion, “If thou art hungry, here is all the food that I possess: eat and be satisfied.”

The lion accordingly devoured the whole of the fawn, except the small portion that Hatim had on the fire; after which, he drank water from a fountain hard by and departed. Hatim having appeased his hunger, and allayed his thirst with water from the spring and such fruit as the jungle produced, resumed his journey. After he had traversed the parched desert for a great part of the day, his thirst became excessive. At length he perceived at a distance the appearance of mountains rising above the plain. The sight cheered him, as he expected soon to quench his thirst in the cool streams wherewith the hills are generally blessed. His disappointment, however, was grievous when he found nothing but heaps of moving sand raised by the blast of the simoom. Exhausted, he sat down underneath a solitary tree; and shortly after he observed a shekshar (a sort of water-fowl) close by him, its wings quite wet. He rose with renewed strength, and made towards the shekshar, which flew away at his approach. In that spot, however, he found a treasure--a spring of the purest water. He prostrated himself on the ground, and offered up thanks to the Bestower of Mercies; after which he allayed his thirst at the spring, and resumed his journey.

After a long march through the desert, he at length saw symptoms of human habitation. Towards evening, as he was entering a highly cultivated country, he beheld a large fire kindled in a field, around which a crowd of people had assembled. Hatim, supposing it to be some display of public rejoicing, approached the people, and said to them, “Tell me, my friends, what country is this? what is the cause of your cutting the hair of your heads and faces in that fanciful manner? what are you doing, thus assembled round the fire? and why this immense pile of dried wood?”--“This,” replied the people, “is the funeral pile of one of our male relations, whose body is now consuming in the sacred flame; and along with him, his widowed wife has burnt herself alive.”--“And do you not, then, bury your dead under the earth?” inquired Hatim, “and why did you cast the helpless widow into the flames? Assuredly the blood of the innocent is on your hands.”

“I perceive you are a stranger in this country,” replied the man whom Hatim had addressed: “this is the empire of India, and it is the custom of the Hindoos that the widowed wife should burn herself alive on the funeral pile of her husband. We have not cast her by force into the fire; she has burnt herself of her own free will.”--“Truly,” resumed Hatim, “it is a most dreadful custom to burn the living with the dead!” and having thus spoken, he betook himself to the road, for he looked on the Hindoos as little better than the cannibals from whom he had lately parted.

All night Hatim continued his journey, and ere noon the following day he came to a large village. Fatigued, and exhausted with hunger and thirst, he entered the house of one of the villagers to procure rest and refreshment. He asked a drink of water from the man of the house, who immediately brought him a pitcher full of churned milk, and another of sweet milk. The man of the house having placed the milk before Hatim, hospitably addressed him, saying, “Stranger, here are two sorts of drink, both cool and refreshing; take either you choose and allay your thirst, for your lips are parched with heat and fatigue.” Hatim took first the churned milk; and having drained it to the bottom, he was about to drink the sweet milk, when his host observed to him, “Stranger, you lack food as much as drink; the rice is ready boiled for my morning meal, let me bring you a part of it, which you may eat along with the milk.”

Hatim most courteously thanked his benevolent entertainer, and inwardly admired the unassuming kindness and hospitality which he experienced in the Hindoo cottage. Meanwhile his host returned with the boiled rice, and laid it before Hatim, who ate heartily of it, and afterwards betook himself to repose. So exhausted was he by his late toils, that he awaked not till next morning, when his Indian friend addressed him, saying, “Noble stranger, the morning meal is ready, and I wait for your company ere I break my fast. You are, however, too much exhausted yet to resume your journey; I hope, therefore, you will rest here for two or three days longer, till your strength is completely restored.”

Hatim arose, and after partaking of his host’s simple fare, he said to him, “Generous Hindoo, the blessing of God will assuredly reward your benevolent actions, and your kindness to the stranger.”--“Brave Arab,” said the Hindoo, “as yet I have done you very small service, and I shall not consider it in the light of hospitality unless you pass three days and nights under my roof.”--“If,” replied Hatim, “such is your pleasure, I willingly accept your invitation.”

The Hindoo then entertained Hatim with accounts of his country, and at the next meal presented to him a variety of the most delicious food. Hatim was highly charmed with the manners of his host, his disinterested kindness, and the plain but healthy fare which was presented to him, so that in his rapture he exclaimed, “Surely Hindoostan is the paradise of the world!” After various conversation, Hatim remarked to his host what he considered as a stain upon the Hindoo character, otherwise so very amiable. “Excuse me, my kind host,” said he, “if I say that one custom peculiar to your country is horrible; I mean the immolation of the living widow with the dead husband. I have been accustomed to see the dead consigned to the dust from which they came, and the sacrificing of the living is revolting to my ideas of humanity.”--“Noble Arab,” said the Hindoo, “such is the opinion of strangers; but when you consider the affection that exists between the wife and husband, a tie by far the strongest in nature, you can easily conceive that when the one dies the other should find life insupportable: nay, it would be wonderful indeed if a tie so strong should admit of separation. Imagine not that we force the widow to burn herself on the pile. She follows her husband, of her own free will, with a joyful heart, as the only consolation left her upon earth. Of this, stranger, you may be fully satisfied, if you abide with us some days.”

It happened on that morning that the chief of the village, who had been for some time dangerously sick, died, leaving behind him four wives. One of these had two sons, another three daughters, and the other two no children. Towards evening preparations were made for the funeral, and the dead body borne out.[b5.01] The four widows followed, dressed in their most costly raiments, adorned with all their jewels, with chaplets of fragrant flowers encircling their necks, and bunches of the sweetest fruits suspended around them. In their hands they held the sacred leaf of the betel-tree, which they from time to time chewed.

The relatives of the widows crowded round them, and supplicated them with tears not to cast away their lives; but they were inconsolable, and deaf to all entreaty. All this Hatim witnessed; and, resolved to be convinced by experience, he approached the widows, and said to them, “Fairest of women, what madness is this! Can it be possible that you sacrifice your lives, and abandon your children, in compliance with a custom so void of reason, so revolting to humanity?”

One of the ladies, with an angelic smile, replied, “Stranger Arab, I forgive you, as you know not the custom of our country, otherwise your rudeness is unpardonable, in daring thus to address us who are dead to the world. We follow our husband to heaven. In our lives we were happy together, and why should death part us? Where would be the humanity of making us linger in this world, when the Supreme decree hath called him hence? May God forbid that the deceit of Satan (on whom be curses) should so far mislead us as to forget our only beloved lord, and attach ourselves to another. Without him, our life would henceforth be an intolerable burden. Why then should we not accompany our best beloved? Why not burn on the same pile, that our ashes may mingle with his, while our souls wing their flight to the regions of the blessed?”

Thus spoke the widow of the chief, regardless of Hatim’s earnest entreaties. The pile was now ready, and the four victims, with frenzied enthusiasm, pulled off their ornaments, and distributed them among their relations on all sides. They then ascended the pile, and placed themselves around the dead body of their husband. Two of them clasped each an arm in her bosom, and the other two his feet. Thus situated, they for the last time looked round, and gave a parting smile to their weeping relatives; after which, a vast quantity of dried wood was heaped over them, and the fire was applied all around.

Hatim, scarcely believing what he saw, waited the result in anxious silence, for he expected to see them every moment rush from the flames. In this, however, he was disappointed; not a shriek was heard from the pile, nor the least appearance of any attempt to escape. At length the whole pile was reduced into a heap of ashes, over which Hatim shed tears as he contemplated the fate of the victims, while his generous heart admired their affection, misplaced as it was.

At length the crowd dispersed to their homes; and as Hatim was quitting the scene with his Hindoo entertainer, the latter observed to him, “Noble Arab, I hope you are now convinced that our women are not compelled to sacrifice themselves. It is purely an action of their own free will, and constitutes one of the noblest displays of conjugal affection.”--“You speak truly, generous Hindoo,” replied Hatim, “yet, in my opinion, the best proof of constancy in the wife to the deceased, would be, to live singly after his death; and by rejecting the addresses of other lovers, convince the world of her sincerity. This would be an ordeal, perhaps, more trying than even the flames of the funeral pile.”

In a few days Hatim, being completely recovered from his late fatigue, said to his host, “My dear friend, I must now part with you, for I am on a journey to explore the mountain of Nida.”--“Let me prevail upon you to go no farther,” said the Hindoo, “for the route is long and dangerous, and it is not in man to reach your destined stage.”--“My trust is in God,” replied Hatim, “who can conduct me thither, and bring me back in safety.” Having thus spoken, Hatim resumed his journey, and night and day he advanced from city to city, and from town to town, till he reached the northern frontiers of India. After crossing an extensive desert, he saw a large city at a distance before him, and thanked his Creator who had guided him once more to human habitations.

Within a short distance of the city gates, Hatim beheld a large concourse of people; and as he approached nearer, he could hear the sound of many voices, as if they were engaged in debate. On his arrival among them, he asked one of them, “Tell me, my friend, what is the cause of this uproar which I hear?”--“The daughter of our chief is dead,” replied the man, “and they are insisting that her husband shall consent to be buried alive with her, a measure which he does not seem to relish: this, stranger, is the cause of the tumult which you now witness.”--“Worthy sir,” resumed Hatim, “is it your custom too, to bury the living with the dead? I see this unfortunate man is anything but compliant; surely you will not cast him alive into the tomb. Have you not in your hearts the fear of God, in whose hands are life and death?”

The chief himself having heard Hatim’s expostulation, said, “Hear me, stranger, before you condemn us. This young man, who was my daughter’s husband, once came into our city a traveller like yourself. He took up his residence among us, and in the course of time fell desperately in love with my daughter. The flame was mutual, so that I had no objections to their union, provided he should conform with our custom, which is, that if the wife dies first, the husband shall be buried alive with her. To this he agreed, and now he will not perform his promise.”

Hatim, on hearing the merits of the case, addressed the young man, and said, “Shame upon you, why do you not perform your promise? Life is at best but short and uncertain; and for this you are willing to stain your reputation!” The young man with tears in his eyes, said, “Generous stranger, have you too ranked yourself among my enemies? Let me ask you if such a custom would be tolerated in your own country?”

“That,” said Hatim, “is not the question at present, but whether you ought to fulfil your agreement.”--“It is madness,” replied the young man; “and while I live I will not submit to it.” When Hatim saw that, on the one hand, the people would not inter the dead body; and, on the other, the husband would not consent to be buried alive, he took the latter aside, and whispered to him, “Do you consent to be buried, and at a proper opportunity, I pledge you my faith that I will release you.”--“But how am I to live in the tomb,” said the man, “till you aid in my resurrection?”--“Leave that to me,” said Hatim, “I will provide for you.”

Hatim then addressed the people aloud, and said, “The young man consents to be buried alive; but the tomb must be made like a cell as it is in his own country, with an aperture left to let in air and the light of day. If, therefore, you form the tomb like a cell, with a small window, the young man is willing to comply with your custom.”--“So much indulgence,” replied the chief, “it is not in my power to grant; but I am ready to refer the case to the magistrate, and abide by his decision.” The parties concerned, along with Hatim, went forthwith to the judge of the village, who after a great deal of deliberation, decided that the young man should have a tomb made for him after the fashion of his own country; “for it would not become us,” said his Worship, “to deal rigorously with a foreigner, although the law is in our favor.”

The people immediately set to work; and having finished the cell, they there incarcerated the surviving husband with the dead wife, and planted a guard over him to prevent his escape. As he was about to be shut up, Hatim gave him every assurance that he would release him at midnight, and therefore he might without fear comply with the custom of the place. The people having shut the tomb, which they secured with a large stone, strewed various flowers over and around it, so that the grave was covered with them. They then, except the sentinel, returned to the city, whither they conducted Hatim. They entertained him in the most hospitable manner, and provided him with an elegant mansion for his residence. Hatim having appeased his hunger and thirst, and enjoyed some hours of repose, began to watch for an opportunity of rescuing his friend from the tomb.

When midnight had arrived, and all the people were asleep, Hatim stole out quietly, and made his way to the burial-ground. But there he had to cope with a difficulty on which he had not calculated. It was one of the customs of that city, that when a person was buried, all the male relations of the deceased should fast, and watch and pray on the tomb for three days and nights, without ever going near their wives and families; Hatim, therefore, was forced to keep aloof during the whole of that period. On the fourth night, however, when the guards had retired to their houses, Hatim lost no time in visiting the tomb; meanwhile the unhappy inmate had full time to feel the horrors of his situation. Often did he weep and exclaim, “Fool that I was, to believe the promise of a false stranger! By his treachery, he prevailed upon me to shut myself up to perish in this dungeon, and now he has gone and left me to my fate! Alas, how dearly must I pay for my folly!”

Thus did the despairing young man fret and lament till the fourth evening, when hunger had so weakened him that he lay as senseless as the dead around him. When Hatim reached the cell, he applied his mouth to the aperture, and in a soft voice said, “My dear friend, I am at last come to release you; if you are still alive, answer me.” But, ere then the young man was so exhausted with hunger and despair, that the voice of aid reached not his ear. Hatim’s generous heart was grieved, for he thought the man must have died. He hesitated whether he should clear away the earth and remove the stone. “It is in vain,” said he to himself, “the inmate is now no more; and heaven knows, I would willingly give my own life to save his.”

Again, Hatim thought it best not to desist while the least hope remained: he therefore repeated his former words, in a voice more loud and distinct: but still no answer returned from the mansion of the dead. He gave way to grief and despair, for he now became convinced that his friend was dead, otherwise he would have heard the voice and returned an answer. A third time, however, in a still louder tone, Hatim exclaimed, “O my friend, if your life still remains, and is dear to you, answer me: otherwise, here shall you rest till the day of judgment. I have exerted all my power to save you, but God’s will be done.”

The young man was at length awakened from his trance. Exhausted as he was, he recognized the voice of Hatim; he therefore with great effort drew near the window of his cell, and said, “Stranger, are you the man who engaged to relieve me, and are you come at last to fulfil your promise?” When Hatim heard this his joy was excessive; he devoutly thanked the Ruler of events, and said to the young man, “I am indeed the very person you allude to; rest still a little, till I make way for your escape.”

Hatim then cleared away the earth and masses of stone which composed the tomb; and having effected a passage sufficiently large, he took the hand of the almost lifeless young man, and brought him out into the open air. In a very short time the young man’s strength and spirits were restored; which when Hatim observed, he said to him, “My good friend, you must lose no time in effecting your escape; fly, then, wherever you think proper.”--“My noble benefactor,” replied he, “my journey is long, and I have nothing wherewith to support myself.” Hatim immediately gave him a handful of gold pieces from his scrip, and urged his instant flight. The young man having thanked his benefactor, betook himself to the road, and escaped safe under the shades of night, while Hatim rebuilt the tomb as it was previously, and returned to his residence. He entered unobserved by any one; and having shut the doors, laid himself down to rest in that happy state of mind which the virtuous alone can enjoy. He awaked not till the next morning was considerably advanced, and all the people astir and ready for their morning meal. Hatim then arose; and after partaking of their food, thanked them for their hospitality, and took leave of them, saying, “I must now leave you, my friends, for I am bound for the mountain of Nida; my journey admits of no delay, as it is now a long period since I left Shahabad.”--“Noble stranger,” said the people, “your adventure is daring; but if you must go, the mountain of Nida is nearly a month’s journey from this place. You will first reach a city of the same name close to the mountain, and the natives will give you every requisite information for your future proceedings.”

Hatim resumed his journey; and at parting the people told him, that after he should have marched some nine or ten days, the road separated into two branches, of which he was to take that towards the right, which would lead him to the city of Nida. Hatim advanced without any interruption till the tenth day, when he came to the two roads; by a strange forgetfulness, he took the left-hand path instead of the right. Thither he marched; but at times he had some misgivings in his own mind that he had taken the wrong road. After he had toiled for four days in this direction, he found himself in the midst of a jungle abounding with wild beasts and birds of prey. Hatim stood still for some time at the foot of a tree, expecting every moment to be torn to pieces.

As he stood listening, he heard all at once a tremendous roaring of monsters at no great distance from him. As a last resource, he climbed up to the top of a tree, and almost instantly he saw wild elephants, lions, tigers, and other wild beasts rush by him in full flight. Close at their heels followed an animal of ordinary size, but of most terrible aspect, such as Hatim had never seen or heard of before. His eyes were like two balls of fire, and his tail was on the crown of his head. The very sight of him was enough to terrify the bravest of men.

Hatim trembled from the centre of his heart. “Alas, Hatim,” said he to himself, “thy life is surely at an end, for how canst thou escape?” But again, Hatim thought better of his condition; he put his trust in God, who never forsakes his servants; and knowing that in His hands only are life and death, he drew his scimitar from the scabbard, and with a steady hand and firm heart awaited the result. Meanwhile the monstrous animal with eyes of fire came close to the tree where Hatim had taken refuge, and being of quick scent, he soon discovered what was among the branches. He made a spring at the tree with such force that he broke it through the middle, when both it and Hatim fell with a crash upon the ground. Another leap brought him close to Hatim, who must have been within his claws had not the branches of the tree protected him. Hatim soon recovered his presence of mind; and seizing his scimitar, he plunged it into the side of the monster, which laid him prostrate upon the ground. As the wound, however, was not mortal, the enraged beast jumped to his feet and made a plunge at the devoted Hatim, who dexterously eluded his grasp, and with his sword gave him another thrust in the body, so that he fell to rise no more. But though the dragon lay mortally wounded, his power of mischief had not yet ceased. He raised a howling noise that made the earth tremble, and lashed the trees around him with his tail. From his mouth and nostrils issued streams of fire, which set the surrounding forest in a blaze. Hatim in the meantime had climbed up the nearest tree as soon as he saw his enemy fallen, and there waited till he saw that no spark of life remained in the monster. At last the tree which he occupied took fire; he was forced, therefore, to leap down with all speed, and such was the violence of his fall, that he lay stunned for some time. When he recovered, the first thing he did was to break the four fangs of the dead monster, which in sharpness resembled so many daggers. These, with the tail and two ears, he carried off with him, in order to keep them as a trophy; and he then resumed his journey.

Hatim at length gained the open plain, and was delighted at seeing a town strongly fortified with lofty walls. On a nearer approach, he discovered towering above the rest a royal mansion, whose glittering turrets reared their pinnacles to the clouds; but no appearance of any living creature did he see. He entered the gates, within which he found every sign of the city being lately inhabited. He saw numerous warehouses, and bazars full of every commodity, but the most deathly silence prevailed throughout.

Hatim looked around on this scene of lifelessness, and wondered in his own mind what could have caused such desolation. He approached the royal residence, which formed the citadel of the town, and in which the king and his family had shut themselves up. On seeing Hatim at a distance, the king said to those around him, “Praised be the Lord, a human being has at length entered our city.” The king then ordered a domestic to call out to the stranger, and invite him to the palace gate. The man accordingly shouted, and Hatim hastened his pace till he stood at the portal. The king opened a window, and said to Hatim, “Welcome, noble stranger, may peace be upon you.” Hatim courteously returned the royal salutation, whereupon his Majesty asked him, “Who are you, brave sir, and whence came you?”--“I am an Arab,” replied Hatim, “and I come from Shahabad; and, moreover, I am going to the mountain of Nida.”--“Truly, brave Arab,” said the king, “you have taken the wrong road to Nida; you ought to have held by the right-hand road, and you have chosen the left. But what is decreed must happen; perhaps the hour of your death is at hand, fate has therefore led you hither.”

Hatim devoutly replied, “If such be the will of God, I am content; for what power is there in mortal man to help himself? Meanwhile, royal sir, for such you seem to be, have the goodness to tell me who you are, and what is the cause of your being thus shut up in your citadel?”--“I am,” replied the other, “king of this country; but of late, my city was visited by a scourge in the shape of a fiery dragon, which forced all my subjects to fly for their lives. They took with them their wives and children, and abandoned the city, while I, with my family and friends, having placed our reliance upon God, sought refuge here, it being too late for us to make our escape, and we have not the power to cope with the monster.”

Hatim requested the king to give him a more minute description of the dragon that had created such dismay in his dominions; to which his Majesty replied, “A terrible creature, which we call the Siyah-dil[b5.02], came down from the mountain Kaf, and made his haunt within our boundaries. Every day he used to come into the city and devour multitudes of the inhabitants, till no one is left living. The citadel he has not as yet been able to enter, for it is surrounded by a deep and wide ditch. Once a day, however, the monster makes the attempt of springing from the further side to the top of the wall; but fortunately it is more than he can accomplish; he always falls short of the top, and rolls headlong into the water.”

When Hatim heard the king’s account, he said, “Sire, let your mind be at peace; for, by the aid of heaven, I have slain your enemy, which I am convinced is the same that attacked me in the forest.” Hatim then detailed the whole circumstance, as already mentioned; whereupon, the king immediately admitted him into the citadel, and, treating him with the highest respect and offering him food and drink becoming a prince, he said, “Brave stranger, I doubt not your honor; but, in order to satisfy my friends and subjects, you will forgive me if I request of you some proof of what you have stated.” Hatim immediately produced the teeth and ears of the Siyah-dil; on seeing which, the king was so delighted that he prostrated himself at his feet and loaded him with encomiums.

His Majesty thereafter despatched those who were near him in all directions with letters certifying the death of the Siyah-dil, and inviting his subjects to return to their homes. In the course of a few days the city was restored to its former life and bustle; and Hatim, taking leave of the king, requested to have a guide to conduct him to the mountain of Nida. The king tried to induce Hatim to stay with him, and said, “Bravest of men, why will you leave me? This city and these realms are yours. I am now old, and have an only daughter; accept her for your wife, and you shall reign in my stead.”--“Generous sire,” returned Hatim, “at present my vow forbids me to accept aught earthly that may benefit myself, till I have discharged a sacred duty which I owe to a friend.”

The king, with tears in his eyes, admired Hatim’s noble and generous conduct, and immediately ordered one of his subjects to conduct him safe to the road that led to the mountain of Nida. Hatim with his guide retraced their way back to the spot where the road separated, which they reached in a few days. The guide then pointed out to him the right-hand path, and said, “Brave prince of Yemen, follow this road and it will take you to the city of Nida.” Ten days after, Hatim came to a large and populous city. The moment he entered within the walls the people conducted him before the governor. His Highness received Hatim with due courtesy; and having requested him to be seated, said, “Tell me, sir, of what country are you, and how came you hither? It is certain that no stranger has visited this city since the time of Alexander the Great, who traversed the whole of the inhabitable globe. May I ask, then, what has been the cause of your visit?”

Hatim gave a full account of Husn Banu and the prince Munir, also what he had himself done up to that moment. When the ruler of the city heard this, he said to Hatim, “Noble stranger, rest yourself here for some days and you will learn enough of the mountain of Nida; for were I now to describe to you its mysteries, you could not comprehend them.” Hatim accordingly accepted the governor’s invitation, and had a house appointed for him to live in, and food, drink, and every requisite plentifully supplied. The principal men of the city visited him and were delighted with his society.

One day, while they were in conversation, Hatim asked one of them which was the mountain of Nida. The man pointed it out to him, and said, “That peak, whose summit penetrates the clouds, is the mountain of Nida.” Meanwhile a loud voice issued from the mountain, and at that moment one of the men in the company all of a sudden became silent and thoughtful. Soon after he rose up; and, regardless of the numerous entreaties of his friends, bent his course towards the mountain. His companions ran after him, but in vain; he spoke not a word, and with a pale countenance quickened his pace to the mountain. Hatim followed among the rest, and said to them, “My good friends, what has befallen the young man, that he thus runs like a maniac he knows not whither?”--“His hour is arrived,” they replied, “for the voice from the mountain exclaimed, ‘_Come quickly_.’”--“And whose voice is it,” said Hatim, “that he should thus blindly obey it?”--“That,” replied they, “is more than we know, you must ask himself.”

Hatim ran till he overtook the devoted young man, whom he seized by the hand, and thus addressed, “My dear friend, it is unkind to refuse the information I ask. Tell me, I beseech you, who is he that has called you to yonder mountain, and I will myself accompany you thither.” Hatim’s entreaties were of no avail; the young man gave no answer, but drew away his hand from him, and ran swift as the wind towards the mountain. Hatim followed close after; but, when he was about half way, the mountain before him vanished from his sight. He stood in the utmost amazement, and cast his eyes in every direction, but no trace of Nida nor of the young man could he discover; he only saw a large stone possessing all the hues of the rainbow.

In the utmost despair he returned towards the city, till he met the people who had come out with him. These were assembled on the road; and when he reached them, they were performing some ceremony known only to themselves. They thrice repeated a form of prayer with their faces turned towards the spot where the mountain had been; and this done, they returned to the city, as if nothing extraordinary had happened. On their return, the young man’s friends and relatives, far from giving way to sorrow, prepared a feast, and entertained all the poor of the city; and after some time spent in mirth and joy, resumed their usual occupations.

Hatim, however, could not conceal his grief for the unfortunate young man who had disappeared so mysteriously. The people laughed at his sorrow, and said to him, “Stranger, it is not our custom to give way to weeping and lamentation; we forgive you, however, this time; but if you are to reside among us, you must conform with our manners, otherwise we shall expel you.” Hatim accordingly restrained his grief, and resided among them for the space of six months, in which period ten or twelve people disappeared in a similar manner. In vain did he ask the inhabitants for an explanation of the mystery; either they could not, or would not, satisfy his curiosity.

Among the inhabitants of the city there was an intelligent man, named Jam, with whom Hatim formed the most sincere friendship and affection, so that they became inseparable companions. One day, as they were conversing together, the awful voice sounded loud from the summit of the mountain. When Hatim’s friend heard the sound, he became silent, and it was easy to see that his hour was come. He quickly rose up, and began to make for the mountain. When his relations received intelligence of this, they all prepared to follow him. Hatim with a heavy heart accompanied his beloved friend, for he knew that he was called thence no more to return. He resolved, however, not to part with him till death, and made up his mind to enter with him into the mysterious mountain, whatever might be the consequence. Hatim then girded up his loins; and placing his trust in God, he laid hold of his friend Jam by the hand, and marched along with him towards the foot of Nida. “My dearest friend,” said Hatim, “why this silence? Speak to me; for I am resolved to share your fate.” But Jam uttered not a word in reply; cold and senseless, he hurried onwards, endeavoring from time to time to free himself from the friendly grasp. At last he exerted his utmost strength, and so sudden was the movement, that ere Hatim was aware of his intention, he found himself stretched upon the ground, while his companion ran off at full speed. Hatim lost no time in pursuing, and having again overtaken Jam, he seized him by the skirt, and clung to him with all his might.

Thus they proceeded up the side of the mountain, Jam endeavoring in vain to cast off his companion. At length they arrived at a spot where the rock rent asunder, and both of them entered the chasm, which immediately closed behind them. Meanwhile, those who had followed them from a distance, seeing that Hatim and Jam had both entered the mountain, returned to their houses, regretting the loss of the noble stranger. They went to the ruler of the city, and informed him how the Arabian prince had accompanied Jam, and disappeared with him in the mountain. The governor was much grieved, and threatened the people with severe punishment for not detaining the generous stranger who had thus rashly incurred his own destruction.

To return to Hatim. After they had entered the fissure of the mountain, an extensive plain appeared before them, the verdure and beauty of which exceeded description. As far as the eye could reach, the same endless green presented itself. As Hatim and his friend advanced, they reached a black spot on the plain, the shape of a grave, on which no plant whatever grew, and there Jam fell lengthways while his soul left his body. Hatim felt the earth shake beneath and straightway the body of his companion sunk into the ground; and the spot that had been previously bare and barren became verdant as the rest of the plain.

Hatim, having witnessed this wonderful scene, raised his voice in prayer to the all-wise Creator, whose decrees are beyond our comprehension. He now knew the mysteries of Nida, that the people of the city thus closed their earthly career. He looked around him for a path to lead him to the city, but no trace could he find either of the mountain or the way by which he came there; the same verdant plain extended in every direction as far as he could see. For seven days and nights he wandered, without a morsel of food or a drop of water, nor did the sight of any living creature greet his eye. Hatim was about to sink upon the ground, and resign his soul to God; for seeing no way of escape, he concluded that his death was decreed in those silent realms.

While occupied with such forebodings, Hatim thought he heard a hollow roar, like the rushing waves in the distant ocean. He advanced in that direction, and at last arrived at the shore of a turbulent and foaming sea, whose farther extremity his eye could not discern. Hatim stood thoughtful upon the beach, and said to himself, “At last my earthly pilgrimage is at an end, for here is a sea, beyond which I cannot pass. Still He who ruleth all things can even here assist me.”

As Hatim was straining his sight across the watery expanse, he saw at a distance a small vessel struggling with the billows, and making for the shore; and great was his joy when he considered that his deliverance was at hand. When the vessel reached the sand at no great distance from where he stood, he quickly ran and stepped into it; but what was his surprise to find no living creature within. On a small table he saw two loaves and a fried fish; and as his hunger was excessive, he praised the Lord, and was about to eat. But, on further reflection, he considered that the victuals must belong to the pilot of the vessel, who could not be far off, perhaps had gone on shore unobserved; and “in such a case,” said Hatim, “it would be highly improper in me to eat what has been prepared for another: I will wait till his return, and share his hospitality, if such be his pleasure.”