While in this mood, his ancient guardian entered the tower. The prince
advanced eagerly to meet him. "O Eben Bonabben," cried he, "thou
hast revealed to me much of the wisdom of the earth; but there is
one thing of which I remain in utter ignorance, and would fain be
informed."
"My prince has but to make the inquiry, and every thing within the
limited range of his servant's intellect is at his command."
"Tell me then, O most profound of sages, what is the nature of
this thing called love?"
Eben Bonabben was struck as with a thunderbolt. He trembled and
turned pale, and felt as if his head sat but loosely on his shoulders.
"What could suggest such a question to my prince- where could he
have learnt so idle a word?"
The prince led him to the window of the tower. "Listen, O Eben
Bonabben," said he. The sage listened. The nightingale sat in a
thicket below the tower, singing to his paramour the rose; from
every blossomed spray and tufted grove rose a strain of melody; and
love- love- love- was still the unvarying strain.
"Allah Akbar! God is great!" exclaimed the wise Bonabben. "Who shall
pretend to keep this secret from the heart of man, when even the birds
of the air conspire to betray it?"
Then turning to Ahmed- "O my prince," cried he, "shut thine ears
to these seductive strains. Close thy mind against this dangerous
knowledge. Know that this love is the cause of half the ills of
wretched mortality.
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