Twice more did the forbearance and love of the sultan induce him to
repeat the question; but I remained silent.
He waved his hands, I was seized by the mutes, and the bowstring
encircled my neck. All was ready, they awaited but the last signal to
tighten the fatal cord.
"Once more, Zara, will you answer; or brave me to your destruction?"
"Sultan, I will at least speak to you before I die. I only wish to
declare my fidelity and my love to you in my last moments, to tell you
that I forgive you for that which, when the truth is known, you will
never forgive yourself. One moment more. Let me remove this jewelled
chain from my neck, now superseded by the bowstring. You presented it to
me when convinced of my attachment and my love. Take it, sultan, and
when you find one as faithful and as true, present it to her; but until
you do so, wear it in memory of Zara. And now let me throw my veil over
those features which have always beamed with love and delight on you,
that when I am dead, and you call them to your recollection, they may be
as you have been used to see them, and not black with convulsions and
distorted with agony. My lord, my dear and honoured lord, farewell!"
The sultan was deeply moved; he turned away his head, and covered his
face with one hand, while the other dropped at his side from the
intensity of his feelings.
Although it never was so intended, this dropping of his hand was
considered as the signal for my death. The string was tightened, and
buried itself, cutting deeply into the flesh of a neck once as fair and
smooth as the polished marble of Patras.
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