"Not quite," I said; "we have lost poor Junglee, who was killed in the fight, and I am wounded--but 'tis only a slight cut, and a few days will heal it." Some of the treasure was instantly distributed to the other ponies; and encamping outside the village, when we reached it, after the accustomed sacrifice, I had my small tent pitched, and all the treasure was conveyed to it. One by one the bags were opened, and glorious, indeed, was the booty--well worth the risk we had encountered! It consisted of dollars, gold mohurs, and rupees, to the value of sixty thousand rupees in all; and there were also six strings of large pearls in a small box, sewn up in wax-cloth, which could not be worth less than ten thousand more. I need not describe our joy: we had comfort--nay, affluence, before us for years, and every one sat and gazed at the heap of treasure in silent thankfulness. Finally it was all collected and put into bags, which I sealed with my own seal. We now hurried to our home, for we sought no adventure, nor needed any: only two unfortunate wretches, who insisted on joining us, were killed, and in less than a month we were within three marches of our village. I despatched a man in advance to give notice of our approach; and, Alla! how my heart beat with love and fond anxiety to see Azima, and to press once more my children to my heart, after all the perils I had encountered; how intense was my anxiety to reach my own threshold, when I saw the well-known grove appear in view, the spot from whence I had departed so full of hope, and the walls and white musjid of the village peeping from amidst the trees by which they were surrounded! I urged my horse into a gallop, and I saw my father and Moedeen approaching to meet me, to give me the _istukbal_, the welcome of return; but, as I neared them, they hung their heads, and advanced with slow and mournful steps. A sudden pang shot through my heart. I threw myself from my horse, and ran towards them. My father was weeping. "Speak, for the sake of Alla!" I cried. "What can this be? Oh, say the worst at once, and tell me--is Azima dead? this suspense will kill me." A few words only the old man spake, as he told me that my child, my beautiful boy, was dead! And Ameer Ali wept. CHAPTER XXXII. Although the mind would ordinarily reject sympathy with the joys or sorrows of a murderer like Ameer Ali, one so deeply stained with crime of the most revolting nature, yet for the moment I was moved to see, that after the lapse of nearly twenty years by his account, the simple mention of the death of his favourite child could so much affect him, even to tears, and they were genuine. I leave others to speculate on the peculiar frame of the Thug's mind, how this one feeling of tenderness escaped being choked by the rank guilt that had sprung up around it, and will pursue my relation of his adventures.