The writer had imitated his handwriting; and soon the libel
was spread about in his name.
Murmurs arose on all sides against the ingratitude of Osmyn. The satire
fell into the hands of the Caliph, who in his rage ordered the
unfortunate Osmyn to be stript of all his property, and driven from
Bagdad. Osmyn, overpowered by the blow, could not defend himself;
besides, how could he make his innocence heard amidst the cries of his
calumniators.
After having wandered a long time, every where imploring pity--sometimes
meeting with kindness, but oftener repulsed with selfishness--he
arrived, at nightfall, before a superb country house, magnificently
illuminated. He heard the accents of joy mingled with the sounds of a
brilliant concert of music, and saw all the signs of a splendid fete.
However, the thunder began to roll, the sky was obscured by heavy
clouds, and Osmyn's miserable clothing was soon drenched by the rain.
He approached this beautiful house, in hopes to find there, if not
hospitality for the night, at least an asylum for some minutes. The
slaves perceived him, and said to him harshly--"What do you ask,
beggar?"
"A humble shelter from the storm, a morsel of bread to appease my
hunger, and a little straw to rest my body on, borne down by fatigue.
Pages:
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31