ible."
The Caliph now in turn stood still, and quite distinctly heard a low
moaning, which seemed to belong rather to a human being than a beast.
Full of expectation, he essayed to proceed to the place whence the
plaintive sounds issued: but the Vizier, seizing him by the wing with
his beak, entreated him fervently not to plunge them in new and
unknown dangers. In vain! the Caliph, to whom a valiant heart beat
beneath his stork-wing, burst away with the loss of a feather, and
hastened into a gloomy gallery. In a moment he reached a door, which
seemed only on the latch, and out of which he heard distinct sighs,
accompanied by a low moaning. He pushed the door open with his bill,
but stood, chained by amazement, upon the threshold. In the ruinous
apartment, which was now but dimly lighted through a grated window, he
saw a huge screech-owl sitting on the floor. Big tears rolled down
from her large round eyes, and with ardent voice she sent her cries
forth from her crooked bill. As soon, however, as she espied the
Caliph and his Vizier, who meanwhile had crept softly up behind, she
raised a loud cry of joy. She neatly wiped away the tears with her
brown-striped wing, and to the great astonishment of both, exclaimed,
in good human Arabic,--

"Welcome to you, storks! you are to me a good omen of deliverance,
for it was once prophesied to me that, through storks, a great piece
of good fortune is to fall to my lot."

When the Caliph recovered from his amazement, he bowed his long neck,
brought his slender feet into an elegant position, and said:
"Screech-owl, after your words, I venture to believe that I see in you
a companion in misfortune. But, alas! this hope that through us thy
deliverance will take place, is groundless. Thou wilt, thyself,
realize our helplessness, when thou hearest our history."

The Screech-owl entreated him to impart it to her, and the Caliph,
raising himself up, related what we already know.

CHAPTER IV.

When the Caliph had told his history to the owl, she thanked him, and
said: "Listen to my story, also, and hear how I am no less unfortunate
than thyself. My father is the king of India; I, his only, unfortunate
daughter, am called Lusa. That same sorcerer Kaschnur, who transformed
you, has plunged me also in this affliction. He came, one day, to my
father, and asked me in marriage for his son Mizra. My father,
however, who is a passionate man, cast him down the steps. The wretch
manage