e king of Souffraria."

Acota, muffled up to the eyes, and dressed in the garments of Mezrimbi,
stepped forth, and the chief brahmin, and all present, in pursuance to
his order, prostrated themselves before Acota, with their foreheads in
the dust. Acota took that opportunity of removing the shawl, and, when
they rose up, stood by the throne, resplendent in his beauty and his
pride. At the sight of him, the chief brahmin raised a cry, which was
heard, not only further than the shriek of the beautiful Princess
Babe-bi-bobu, but had the effect of recalling her to life and
recollection. All joined in the cry of astonishment when they beheld
Acota in the garments of Mezrimbi.

"Who, then, art thou?" exclaimed the chief brahmin, to his son, in
Acota's dress.

"I am," exclaimed his son, exhausted with pain and mortification, "I
am--I was Mezrimbi."

"Grandees," cried Acota, "as the chief brahmin has already asserted, and
as you have agreed, in that you behold the finger of Heaven, which ever
punishes hypocrisy, cruelty, and injustice;" and the chief brahmin fell
down in a fit, and was carried out, with his unfortunate son Mezrimbi.

In the meantime the beauteous Princess Babe-bi-bobu had recovered, and
was in the arms of Acota, who, resigning her to her attendant maidens,
addressed the assembly in a speech of so much eloquence, so much beauty,
and so much force, that it was written down in letters of gold, being
considered the _ne plus ultra_ of the Souffrarian language; he explained
to them the nefarious attempt of Mezrimbi to counteract the will of
Heaven, and how he had fallen into the snare which he had laid for
others. And when he had finished, the whole assembly hailed him as
their king; and the population, whose heads paved, as it were, a space
of ten square miles, cried out, "Long life to the king Acota, and his
beautiful princess Babe-bi-bobu, the cream tart of delight!"

Who can attempt to describe the magnificent procession which took place
that evening, who can describe the proud and splendid bearing of king
Acota, or the beaming eyes of the beautiful Princess Babe-bi-bobu.
Shall I narrate how the nightingales sang themselves to death--shall I--

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"No, pray don't," interrupted the pacha, "only let us know one thing--
was the beautiful Babe-bi-bobu married at last?"

"She was, that very evening, your sublime highness."

"Allah be