It happened once upon a time, late one afternoon, that a poor peasant somehow came into the court of the great Caliph Haroun ul Rashid, and throwing himself down upon the carpet, begged the Caliph to be generous.

“Your greatness,” the peasant said, “Protector of the Faithful, our crops have withered and died, and there is nothing at home to feed my wife and children. For the sake of the Merciful and Compassionate, give us something so that we may live, and I swear we will pray every day for your salvation.”

The Caliph had been about to leave the throne room at that moment, and so he said to the peasant, “Come back tomorrow morning, and by the Merciful I will give you something.”

Bahlool was sitting in a corner of the throne room, and when he heard this, he jumped to his feet and shouted to all present, “Sound the trumpets! Announce a public holiday! The Caliph has won a great victory!”

“Bahlool,” said Haroun, “what is all this noise? What victory? What are you talking about?”

“A victory over death,” Bahlool replied.

The Caliph had come to expect the unexpected from Bahlool, but this he did not understand. “What are you talking about?”

“You have told this peasant that you will be alive tomorrow morning to give him help. You are sure you can help him tomorrow, and that the merit of your charity will not be stolen by death.”

Without further discussion, the Caliph called his minister and ordered that the peasant be given some gold.