Mirzoza, who gave over all hopes of the Sultan’s company, was in bed. Mangogul approach’d her pillow softly, and saw by the glimmering light of a night taper, that she was asleep. “Good,” say he, “she sleeps, let us quickly shift the ring on another finger, resume our natural shape, turn the stone on this fair sleeper, and awake her Toy a little while.⁠—But what stops me?⁠—I tremble.⁠—Is it possible that Mirzoza?⁠—No, it is not possible, Mirzoza is faithful to me. Fly from me, injurious suspicions, I will not, I ought not to heed ye.” He said, and put his fingers on the ring: but taking them off as hastily as if it had been fire, he cried within himself. “What do I do, wretched man! I insult Cucufa’s advice. For the sake of satisfying a silly curiosity, I am going to run the hazard of losing my mistress and my life. If her Toy should be in the humor of talking extravagantly, I should never see her more, and I should die of grief. And who knows what a Toy may have in its soul?” Mangogul’s agitation made him in some measure forget himself: he pronounced these last words pretty loud, and the favorite awoke.