A young Nawab， named Salim Ansari， came in 1894 to the city of Lucknow to pursue his studies of the Persian language. Ansari took his lodgings in an old gloomy building situated near the botanical garden or Sikandar bagh， as it was locally called. These despondent surroundings， together with the tendency to heartbreak， natural to a young man for the first time out of his native sphere， caused Salim to sigh heavily as he looked around the desolate and ill-furnished old house.
　　“Do you find this old mansion gloomy？” asked the old maid， who was also the housekeeper. “If you do then put your head out of the window， and you will see a garden that has all the beauty of the world.”
　　Ansari mechanically did as the old woman advised， and was immediately struck by the grandeur of the garden which seemed to have been cultivated with exceeding care.
　　“Does this garden belong to the house？” asked Salim.
　　“No， Nawab sahib.” This garden belongs to the Haveli you see yonder and is cultivated by the own hands of Hakim Anwar Khan， a naturalist， and a famous man of our town，” said the old maid. “It is said that he distills these plants into medicines that are as potent as a charm. Very often you will see the Khan Sahib at work， and sometimes his daughter， too， gathering the strange flowers that grow in the garden.”
　　The old woman had now done what she could for the information of her young master， and making an excuse， took her leave.
　　Salim still found no better occupation that to look down into the garden beneath his window. From its appearance， he judged it to be one of those botanical garden which might once have been the pleasure place of an opulent family， for there was the ruin of a marble fountain in the centre in which the water gushed and sparkled as cheerfully as ever. All about the pool into which the water subsided， grew various plants， that seemed to require a plentiful supply of moisture for their nourishment they all had gigantic leaves， and， in some instances huge gorgeously magnificent flowers.
　　While Salim stood at the window， he heard a rustling behind a screen of leaves， and became aware that a person was at work in the garden. His figure soon emerged into view， and showed itself to be that of no common laborer， but a tall， emaciated， sallow， and sickly-looking man， dressed in a black Sherwani and white narrow pyjamas. He was beyond the middle age， with grey hair， thin grey beard， and a face marked with intellect and cultivation. 　　Nothing could exceed the intentness with which this gardener examined every shrub which grew in his path. However， he avoided their actual touch or the direct inhaling of their odors with a caution that surprised Salim.
　　The distrustful gardener， while plucking away the dead leaves or pruning the too luxuriant growth of the shrubs， defended his hands with a pair of thick gloves. Nor were these his only armor. When， in his walk through the garden， he come to the magnificent plant that hung its purple gems beside the marble fountain， he placed a king of mask over his mouth and nostrils， but， finding his task still too dangerous， he drew back， removed the mask， and called loudly.
　　“Nafisa！ Nafisa！”
　　“Here I am， father. What would you？” cried a rich and youthful voice from the window of his Haveli. “Are you in the garden？”
　　“Yes， Nafisa”， answered the gardener，” and I need your help.”
　　Soon there emerged from under a sculptured portal the figure of a beautiful girl. As Nafisa come down the garden path， it was observable that the she handled and inhaled the odor of several of the plants which her father has most sedulously avoided.
　　“Here， Nafisa”， said the latter， “see many chores are required to be done to our chief treasure. I am afraid my life might pay the penalty of approaching it too closely. Henceforth， this plant must be consigned to your sole charge.”
　　“I will look after it with pleasure，” cried again the rich tones of the young lady， as she bent towards the magnificent plant and opened her arms as if to embrace it.
　　Then， with all the tenderness in her manner， she busied herself with such attentions as the plant seemed to require， and Salim， from the precincts of his window rubbed his eyes and almost doubted whether it were a girl tending her favorite flower， or one sister performing the duties of affection to another. The scene soon terminated. Night was already closing in， and Salim closing the lattice， went to his bed and dreamed of a rich flower and a beautiful girl.
　　Salim’s first movement， on starting from sleep， was to throw open the window and gaze shown into the garden. He was surprised and a little ashamed to find how real and matter-of-fact an affair it proved to be. The young man rejoiced that， next to his gloomy chambers， he had the privilege of overlooking this spot of lovely and luxuriant vegetation.
　　In the course of the day he paid his respects to Iqbal Mohammad， professor of medicine in the local university and a physician of eminent repute， to whom Salim had brought a letter of introduction. The professor was of genial and jovial nature. He kept the young man， the son of his friend， to lunch and made himself very agreeable by the freedom and liveliness of his conversation. Salim， conceiving that men of eminence and inhabitants of the same city must be on familiar terms with one another， took an opportunity to mention the name of Hakim Anwar Khan. The professor reacted to this name in a manner which made Salim realize that these two eminent people are not on the best of terms.

　　“Although knowledgeable， Anwar Khan is a man given to very unusual and dangerous experiments，” said the professor. “He is a man who might hereafter hold your life and death in his hand， if he comes to know you. There are certain grave objections to his medical art and experiments.”
　　“And what are they？” asked the young man.
　　“What is it”， asked the professor， “that makes you so inquisitive about him. As I have already informed you， he is a most unworthy man who would sacrifice human life， his own among the rest， or whatever else was dearest to him， for the sake of adding to his evil knowledge.”
　　“It is a theory，” continued the professor， “that all medicinal virtues are comprised within those substances which we term vegetable poisons. These he cultivates with his own hands， and fertilizes them with manure consisting of goat’s blood and some herbs. It is said he has even produced new varieties of poison， more horribly deleterious than anything known.”
　　The young Nawab was shocked. But having realized the professor antipathy to the Hakim， he took his statement with a pinch of salt.
　　At length he said，“I do not know how deadly Hakim Anwar Khan’s experiments are， but surely there is one object more dear to him. He has a daughter.”
　　“Aha！” cried the professor， with a laugh. “So now your secret is out. You have heard of his daughter， whom all the young men in Lucknow are wild about， though not half a dozen have ever had the good fortune to see her face. I know little of Nafisa save that Anwar Khan is said to have instructed her deeply in his science， and that， young and beautiful as fame reports her， she is already qualified to continue conducting his experiments.”
　　The pleasant lunch soon ended and Salim returned to his lodgings somewhat excited with the conversation of the afternoon. On his way， he bought a bouquet of flowers.
　　Ascending to his chamber， he seated himself near the window， so what he could look down into the garden with little risk of being discovered. All beneath his eyes was solitude. Soon， however， as Salim had half hoped， a figure appeared beneath the antique sculptured portal and come down between the rows of plants， inhaling their various perfumes. On again beholding the young lady， the Nawab was amazed to perceive how much her beauty exceeded his recollection of it. He was struck by her face of simplicity and sweetness. 　　Approaching the shrub， she threw open her arms， and drew its branches into an intimate embrace – so intimate that her features were hidden by the shrub and her glistening ringlets all intermingled with the flowers.
　　“Give me your breath， my sister，” exclaimed Nafisa， “for I am faint with common air. And give me this flower of yours， so that I may place it close beside my heart.”
　　With these words the beautiful daughter of Anwar Khan plucked one of the richest blossoms of the shrub， and was about fasten it in her bosom. But now a singular incident happened. A small orange-colored reptile chanced to be creeping along the path， just at the feet of Nafisa. It appeared to Salim that a drop or two of moisture from the broken stem of the flower descended upon the lizard’s head.
　　For an instant the reptile contorted itself violently， and then lay motionless. Nafisa observed this remarkable phenomenon sadly but without surprise， nor did she hesitate to arrange the fatal flower in her bosom.
　　“Am I awake？ Have I my senses？” said the Nawab to himself. “What is this being？ Beautiful shall I call her， or inexpressibly terrible？”
　　Nafisa now strayed carelessly through the garden， approaching closer beneath Salim’s window. At this moment there came an insect over the garden wall. Without alighting on the flowers. It lingered in the air and fluttered about Nafisa’s head. And lo！ What did Salim see？ He saw that while Nafisa was gazing at the insect with childish delight， it grew faint and fell at her feet； its bright wings shivered， it was dead- from no cause that he could discern. Again Nafisa sighed heavily as she bent over the dead insect.
　　An impulsive movement of Salim drew her eyes to the window.
　　“May I introduce myself，” said the Nawab. “I am Salim Ansari， a Nawab from a small town near Lucknow. I have come to this city to pursue higher studies in Persian.” Here the young man stopped， coughed and then continued， “It is my good fortune to have this beautiful garden next to my chamber and more than to have made the acquaintance of its lovely owner.”So saying， the young Salim Ansari， with all the ardor at his command， threw down the bouquet.
　　“Please accept this gift，” said the Nawab.
　　“Thanks， Nawab sahib，” replied Nafisa， with her rich voice that sounded like music. “I accept your gift.”
　　She lifted the bouquet from the ground， and then， as if inwardly ashamed at having stepped aside from her maidenly reserve to respond to a stranger’s greeting， passed swiftly homeward through the garden. But few as the moments were， it seemed to Salim， when she was at the point of vanishing beneath the sculptured portal， that his beautiful bouquet was already beginning to wither in her grasp. 　　For many after this incident， the Youngman avoided the window that looked into Anwar Khan’s garden， as if something ugly and monstrous would have blasted his eyesight had he been betrayed into a glance. He felt conscious of having put himself， to a certain extent， within the influence of an unintelligible power. Whether or not Nafisa possessed that terrible attribute， that fatal breath， she had at least instilled a fierce and subtle poison into his system.

　　Sometimes he endeavored to assuage the fever of his spirit by a rapid walk through the streets of Lucknow. One day while so walking， he met Professor Iqbal Mohammad.
　　“Salim Ansari！” the professor cried， “Where have you been？”
　　Endeavoring to recover himself from this sudden encounter， Salim quietly said，“How are you professor sahib？”
　　“I am fine. But what about you？ Do you wish to have no contact with me？”
　　“Of course not， professor sahib. It is just that I have been very busy lately，” said the young Nawab.
　　Now， while he has spoken there came a man in black along the street， stooping and moving feebly like a person in inferior health. His face was all overspread with a most sickly and sallow hue. As he passed， this person exchanged a cold and distant nod with the professor， but fixed his eyes upon Salim with an intentness that was unerring.
　　“It is Anwar Khan，” whispered the professor when the stranger had passed.“Has he ever seen your face before？”
　　“Not that I know，” answered Salim， starting at the name.
　　“He has seen you！ He must have seen you！” said Iqbal Mohammad， hastily.“For some purpose or other， this man is making a study of you. I know that look of his！ It is the same that illuminates his face as he bends over a bird， a mouse， or butterfly， which， in pursuance of some experiment， he has killed by the perfume of a flower. Salim， I say it with all authority， you are the subject of one of Anwar Khan’s experiments.”
　　“I can’t believe it， “replied the startled Nawab.
　　“You must， you must，” said the professor in haste. “I tell you that Anwar Khan has a professional interest in you. You have fallen into his fearful hands！ And Nafisa is a part of this conspiracy.”
　　“This cannot be，” said Iqbal Mohammad to himself after Salim had gone. “The young Nawab is the son of my old friend， and should not come to any harm. I have a premotion that Anwar Khan is going to make a use of him for his infernal experiments along with his daughter. I must stop this.” 　　Meanwhile Salim after a circuitous walk， returned to his lodgings. As he crossed the threshold he was met by the old maid.
　　“Is there a way by which I can enter the gardens？” asked Salim of the maid.
　　“Yes， my master. There is a secret private entrance.”
　　“What do you say？” exclaimed Salim， “a private entrance into the Hakim’s garden？”
　　“Hush-hush！ Not so loud！” whispered the maid， putting her hands over his mouth. “Yes， into the Hakim’s garden， where you may see all his shrubbery. Many a young man in Lucknow would give gold to be admitted among those flowers.”
　　“Then show me the way，” said Salim.
　　After some hesitation， the maid led him along several obscure passages， and finally undid a door， though which， As it was opened， there came the sight and sound of rustling leaves， with the broken sunshine glimmering among them. Salim stepped forth， and walking a few steps found himself beneath his own window in the open area of Hakim Anwar Khan’s garden.
　　Once in the garden， he threw a glance ground the garden to discover whether Nafisa or her father was present， and perceiving that he was alone， began a critical observation of the plants.
　　His studies disappointed him. He found the plants， shrubs and flowers huge and too gorgeous. But other than that， they seemed normal. While busy in her observations， he heard the rustling of a silken garment， and turning， beheld Nafisa emerging from beneath the sculptured portal.
　　Salim had not considered ， that in the event of his meeting Nafisa or her father， what should be his behavior， whether he should apologize or assume that he was there as a neighbor. But Nafisa’s manner placed him at ease. She came lightly along the path and met him near the broken fountain. There was a surprise in her face， which was brightened by a simple and kind expression of pleasure.
　　“You seem to be a connoisseur of flowers， Nawab sahib，” said Nafisa with a smile. “It is no marvel， therefore if the sight of my father’s rare collection has tempted you take a nearer view. If he were here， he could tell you many strange and interesting facts as to the nature and habits of these shrubs； for he has spent a lifetime in such studies， and this garden is his world.”
　　“And yourself， Nafisaji，” observed Salim with a deep bow， “If I am to believe what your fame says， are likewise deeply skilled in the virtues of these rich blossoms and these spicy perfumes.”
　　“Are there such rumors about my fame？” asked Nafisa， with the music of a pleasant laugh. “No， though I have grown up among these flowers， I know very little of their hues and perfumes. There are many flowers here that shock and offend me. But pray， Nawab sahib， do not believe what people say of me. Believe nothing of me save what you see with your own eyes.” 　　“But must I believe all that I have seen with my eyes？” asked Salim， pointedly， while recollecting the former scenes which made him sick.
　　It would appear that Nafisa understood him. There came a deep flush to her cheek； but she looked full into Salim’s eyes， and responded to his gaze of uneasy suspicion with a queen like haughtiness.
　　“Forget whatever you may have fancied in regard to me，” she said. “You must only believe whatever I tell you because the words come from my heart. Come， let us take a walk around the gardens.”
　　While they walked her manner became gay and she talked about matters as simple as the daylight or monsoon clouds， or asked questions in reference to the city， or Salim’s distant home， his friends， his mother and his sisters- questions indicating such seclusion ， and such lack of familiarity with the world ， that Salim responded as if to an infant. In this free intercourse they had walked through the gardens and after many turns among its avenues， came to the magnificent shrub， standing beside the fountain. It had a fragrance which Salim recognized as identical with Nafisa’s breath， but incomparably more powerful. As her eyes fell upon it， Salim beheld her press her hand to her bosom as if her heart were throbbing suddenly and painfully.
　　“For the first time in my life，” Nafisa murmured addressing the shrub， “I had forgotten you. “

　　At this stage Salim extended a hand to pluck a flower from the shrub in order to present it to the beautiful woman； but Nafisa darting forward， uttered a shriek that went through his heart like a dagger. She caught his hand and drew it back with the whole force of her slender figure.
　　“Do not touch it！” exclaimed Nafisa， in a voice of agony. “Not for your life！ It is fatal！”
　　Then hiding her face， she fled from him and vanished beneath the sculptured portal. As Salim followed her with his eyes， he beheld the emaciated figure of Anwar Khan， who had been watching the scene from the shadow of the entrance.
　　After this first interview， a second followed； and then a third； a fourth； and thereupon a meeting with Nafisa in the garden became a part of Salim’s daily life. He began thinking and dreaming of nothing else but meeting his Nafisa.
　　But， with all this intimate familiarity， there still was a reserve in Nafisa’s demeanor. By all appreciable signs they loved； but their love lacked something which he could not fathom. 　　A considerable time had now passed since Salim’s last meeting with professor Iqbal Mohammad. One morning， the professor visited him.
　　The professor chatted carelessly for a few minutes and then said：
　　“I wonder whether you remember the old story of the Persian prince， who sent a beautiful woman as a present to Alexander， the great. She was as lovely as the dawn and as gorgeous as the sunset， but what especially distinguished her was a certain rich perfume in her breath. Alexander， as was natural to a youthful conqueror， fell in love at first sight with this magnificent stranger， but a certain physician， happening to be present， discovered a terrible secret in regard to her.”
　　“And what was that？” asked Salim， turning his eyes downward to avoid those of the professor.
　　“That this lovely woman，” continued the professor， with emphasis， had been nourished with poisons from her birth upward， until her whole nature was so imbued with them， that she herself had become the deadliest poison in existence. With that rich perfume of her breath， she could put to death almost anyone. Her love would have been poison-her embrace death. Is this not a marvelous tale？”
　　“A childish fable，” answered Salim nervously starting from his chair.
　　“By the by，” said the professor， looking uneasily about him， what singular fragrance is this in your apartment？ Is it the perfume of your handkerchief？ It is like the smell of a flower， but I see no flowers in the chamber.”
　　“Nor are there any，” replied Salim， who had turned pale as the professor spoke， “nor， I think， is there any fragrance except in your imagination.”
　　“Ay； but my imagination does not often play such tricks，” said professor Iqbal Mohammad. “Our friend Anwar Khan， as I have heard， tinctures his medicaments with odors richer than those found anywhere. Doubtless， likewise， the fair Nafisa would minister draughts as sweet as a maiden’s breath， but woe to him that inhales them！”
　　Salim’s face evinced many contending emotions. The tone in which the professor alluded to the pure and lovely daughter of Anwar Khan was not to his to liking.
　　“Professor Sahib，” said Salim， “you are being most unfair to Nafisa. To call her breath poison is，” here the young Nawab hesitated before he uttered the words， “evil thinking.”
　　“Salim，”answered the professor， with a calm expression of pity， “I know this wretched girl far better than you. Now hear the truth in respect of the poisoner Anwar Khan and his poisonous daughter， yes， poisonous as she is beautiful. That old fable of the Persian woman has become a truth by the deep and deadly experiments of Anwar Khan.” 　　Salim groaned and hid his face.
　　“Her father，” continued the professor，“is a genius， but an evil genius. Beyond a doubt you are selected as the material of some new experiment. Perhaps the result is to be death； perhaps a face more awful still.”
　　“It cannot be，” muttered Salim to himself. “It cannot be.” he repeated feebly.
　　“But，” resumed the professor，“I am your father’s friend and so have to help you. Look at this little silver vase！ Its contents are invaluable. One little sip of this antidote would render all other poisons innocuous. Doubt not its efficacy. We can still help this unfortunate girl. Give this precious liquid to your dear Nafisa and see the result. I am sure it will have the desired effect.”
　　The professor laid a small， exquisitely wrought silver vial on the table. He then took his leave and departed.
　　It was now the customary hour of daily interview with Nafisa. Before descending into the garden， Salim looked himself in the mirror. While gazing he said to himself：
　　“At least her poison has not yet lodged itself into my system. I am no flower to perish in her grasp.”
　　With that thought he turned his eyes on the bouquet， which he had planned to present to her. A thrill of indefinable horror shot through his frame on his perceiving that those dewy flowers were already beginning to droop. Salim grew white as marble， and stood motionless before the mirror. He remembered the professor’s remark about the fragrance that seemed to pervade the chamber. It must have been the poison of his breath. Then he shuddered at himself. Recovering from his stupor， he began to watch with a curious eye a spider that had just entered his room. Salim bent towards the insect and emitted a deep， long breath. The spider suddenly dropped to the floor. Again Salim sent forth a breath， deeper， longer， and imbued with a venomous feeling out of his heart. The spider made a convulsive grip with its limbs and was dead.
　　“Accursed！ Accursed am I！” muttered Salim addressing himself. “My breath has become so poisonous that this deadly insect perished by my breath？”
　　At that moment a rich， sweet voice came floating up from the garden.
　　“Salim！ Salim！ It is past the hour！ Please come down！”
　　“Yes，” muttered Salim again. “She is perhaps the only being whom my breath may not slay！”
　　He rushed down， and in an instant was standing before the bright and loving eyes of Nafisa. A moment ago his wrath and despair had been so fierce that he could have desired nothing so much as to wither her by glance； but in her actual presence， Salim’s rage was quelled. Nafisa， with a quick spiritual sense， immediately felt that there was a gulf of blackness between them. They walked on together， sad and silent， and came to the marble fountain， and to its pool of water in the midst of which grew the shrub that bore gem-like blossoms. 　　“Nafisa，” he asked， abruptly， “from where has this shrub come？”
　　“My father created it，” she answered， with simplicity.
　　“Created it？” repeated Salim. “What do you mean， Nafisa？”
　　“He is a man fearfully acquainted with the secrets of nature，” replied Nafisa； “and at the time when I was born， he created it by extracting from an existing plant its juices. Then he mixed them with goat’s blood and some herbs； this mixture was reinjected into the plant to give it a new life.”
　　Here she stopped speaking for a few moments. However seeing that Salim was approaching the shrub she said with terror： “Don’t approach it！ It has qualities that you cannot dream of. But I， dearest Salim， - I grew up and blossomed with this plant and was nourished with its breath. I have loved it as my sister. But，”and here Nafisa became quiet.
　　“But what？” asked Salim.
　　“It is all wrong，” said Nafisa. “I have realized that an awful doom awaits me. It was all wrong.”
　　There was a long silence. Salim noticed that tears welled up in Nafisa’s eyes. Then she continued：

　　“Yes， there is an awful doom. The effect of my father’s fatal love of plants has estranged me from all society. I am so lonely.”
　　“Is it a hard doom？” asked Salim， fixing his eyes upon her.
　　“Only of late have I known hard it is，” she answered tenderly.
　　Salim’s rage broke forth from this sullen gloom like a lightning flash out of a dark cloud.
　　“Accursed one！” he cried， with venom and anger. “And finding your solitude unbearable， you have poisoned me likewise and enticed me into your region of unspeakable horror！”
　　“Nawab Sahib！” exclaimed Nafisa， turning her large bright eyes upon his face. The force of his words had not found its way into her mind； she was merely thunderstruck.
　　“Yes， poisonous thing！” repeated Salim， beside himself withy passion. “You have done it！ You have filled my veins with poison！ You have made me as fateful， as ugly， as loathsome and as deadly a creature as yourself！ Now， if our breaths are as fatal to ourselves as to all others， let us join our lips in one kiss of unutterable hatred， and so die！”
　　“What has befallen you？” murmured Nafisa， with a low moan out of her heart. “Holy God， pity me， a poor heartbroken child！”
　　“Aha， so you want mercy from God and wish to pray，” Cried Salim， still with the same friendish scorn， “Your prayers， as they come from your lips， taint the atmosphere with death.”