The Story of the Three Sons of Hali

Until his eighteenth birthday, young Neangir lived happily in a village about forty miles from Constantinople. He believed that Mohammed and his wife Zinebi were his real parents.

Neangir was quite content with his life, though he was neither rich nor powerful. Unlike most young men his age, he had no desire to leave home. So he was completely surprised when one day Mohammed told him with many sighs that it was time for him to go to Constantinople and choose a profession.

The choice would be his, but he would probably prefer to be a soldier or a doctor learned in the law, who explains the Koran to people. "You know the holy book almost by heart," the old man ended, "so very soon you would be able to teach others.

But write to us and tell us how you live, and we promise never to forget you." With these words, Mohammed gave Neangir four piastres to start him in the great city and arranged for him to join a caravan heading to Constantinople.

The journey took several days, as caravans travel slowly, but at last the walls and towers of the capital appeared in the distance. When the caravan stopped, the travelers went their separate ways, and Neangir was left feeling strange and rather lonely. He had plenty of courage and made friends easily, but this was the first time he had left his village, and no one had ever spoken to him about Constantinople. He did not even know the name of a single street or a single person who lived there.

Wondering what to do next, Neangir stood still for a moment to look around. Suddenly a pleasant-looking man came up and bowed politely. He asked if the young man would honor him by staying in his house until he had made some plans. Neangir, seeing no other option, accepted the offer and followed him home.

They entered a large room where a girl of about twelve was setting three places at the table. "Zelida," said the stranger, "was I not right when I said I would bring a friend home to eat with us?" "My father," the girl replied, "you are always right in what you say, and what is better, you never mislead others." As she spoke, an old slave placed a dish of pillau—rice and meat, a favorite in the East—on the table, set down glasses of sherbet for each person, and left the room quietly.

During the meal, the host talked a great deal about all sorts of things. But Neangir could not stop looking at Zelida, as far as he could without being rude. The girl blushed and grew uncomfortable, and finally turned to her father.

"The stranger's eyes never leave me," she said in a low, hesitant voice. "If Hassan hears of this, jealousy will drive him mad." "No, no," replied the father, "you are certainly not for this young man. Did I not tell you I intend him for your sister Argentine?

I will at once take steps to fix his heart on her." He rose and opened a cupboard, from which he took some fruits and a jug of wine, which he put on the table along with a small silver and mother-of-pearl box.

"Taste this wine," he said to the young man, pouring some into a glass. "Give me a little, too," cried Zelida. "Certainly not," answered her father. "You and Hassan already had as much as was good for you the other day." "Then drink some yourself," she replied, "or this young man will think we mean to poison him." "Well, if you wish, I will do so," said the father. "This elixir is not dangerous at my age, as it is at yours."

When Neangir had emptied his glass, his host opened the mother-of-pearl box and held it out to him. Neangir was beside himself with delight at the picture of a young maiden more beautiful than anything he had ever dreamed of.

He stood speechless, while his heart swelled with a feeling quite new to him. His two companions watched him with amusement until at last Neangir roused himself. "Explain to me, I pray you," he said, "the meaning of these mysteries. Why did you ask me here?

Why did you force me to drink this dangerous liquid which has set my blood on fire? Why have you shown me this picture which has almost made me lose my reason?"

"I will answer some of your questions," replied his host, "but not all. The picture you hold is that of Zelida's sister. It has filled your heart with love for her, so go and seek her.

When you find her, you will find yourself." "But where shall I find her?" cried Neangir, kissing the charming miniature. "I cannot tell you more," replied the host cautiously. "But I can!" interrupted Zelida eagerly.

"Tomorrow you must go to the Jewish bazaar and buy a watch from the second shop on the right. And at midnight—" But what was to happen at midnight Neangir did not hear, for Zelida's father hastily laid his hand over her mouth, crying, "Oh, be silent, child!

Would you bring upon yourself the fate of your unhappy sisters?" Hardly had he spoken when a thick black vapor rose from the precious bottle, which his rapid movement had overturned. The old slave rushed in and shrieked loudly, while Neangir, upset by this strange adventure, left the house.

He spent the rest of the night on the steps of a mosque. At dawn, he took his picture out of the folds of his turban. Then, remembering Zelida's words, he asked his way to the bazaar and went straight to the shop she had described.

When Neangir asked to see some watches, the merchant produced several and pointed out the one he considered best. The price was three gold pieces, which Neangir readily agreed to pay. But the man hesitated to hand over the watch unless he knew where his customer lived.