her of her
illness; so each day she used to take a urinal in which to examine the
urine, until she saw one day that no medicine could ever be of any help,
and that she would die that very day. This urine Thessala carried off
and kept until the emperor arose, when she went to him and said: "If now
it be your will, my lord, send for all your physicians; for my mistress
has passed some water; she is very ill with this disease, and she
desires the doctors to see it, but she does not wish them to come where
she is." The doctors came into the hall and found upon examination that
the urine was very bad and colourless, and each one said what he thought
about it. Finally, they all agreed that she would never recover, and
that she would scarcely live till three o'clock, when, at the latest,
God would take her soul to Himself. This conclusion they reached
privately, when the emperor asked and conjured them to tell him the
truth. They reply that they have no confidence in her recovery, and that
she cannot live past three o'clock but will yield up her soul before
that time. When the emperor heard this, he almost fell unconscious to
the floor, as well as many others who heard the news. Never did any
people make such moan as there was then throughout the palace. However,
I will speak no further of their grief; but you shall hear of Thessala's
activities--how she mixes and brews the potion. She mixed and stirred it
up, for she had provided herself a long time in advance with everything
which she would need for the potion. A little before three o'clock she
gives her the potion to drink. At once her sight became dimmed, her face
grew as pale and white as if she had lost her blood: she could not have
moved a foot or hand, if they had flayed her alive, and she does not
stir or say a word, although she perceives and hears the emperor's grief
and the cries which fill the hall. The weeping crowds lament through all
the city, saying: "God! what woe and misfortune has been brought upon us
by wicked death! O covetous and voracious death! Death is worse than a
she-wolf which always remains insatiable. Such a cruel bite thou hast
never inflicted upon the world! Death, what hast thou done? May God
confound thee for having put out the light of perfect beauty! Thou hast
done to death the fairest and most lovely creature, had she but lived,
whom God has ever sought to form. God's patience surely is too great
when He suffers thee to have the power to br