Eiz-ood-Deen was made prisoner with the rest or the robbers, who were severally put in irons, and finally marched to Ghizny, where they were cast into separate dungeons. The merchant’s son now looked upon his doom as sealed. Taken up as a robber and murderer, he saw little chance of escape, and began to look forward with dreadful apprehensions to undergoing an ignominous death. How was he to prove his innocence when he had been taken in the very den of those criminals who had committed the murder, and was declared by them to be one of their party? He could bring forward no proof of his innocence to countervail such strong presumptive evidence of his guilt. His mere declaration would scarcely be listened to, it being well known that the guilty almost invariably declare themselves innocent. He paced his prison with a restless and impatient step. It seemed as if the doom of destiny were upon him. Since the death of that guiltless girl, whom he had hoped to make his wife, he had known nothing but misfortune. The conviction smote upon his heart that he had been saved from destruction, when the hurricane stirred the elements into frightful combination, and threatened every moment to engulf him amid the raging billows, only to meet a more dreadful doom upon land. He now regretted that he had not perished amid the turbulent waters which bore his father to the abode of spirits, or that the tiger had not struck him dead when it raised its paw against him in the jungle. What was to be done? There was no evading the doom which awaited him. He must die a degraded criminal, his body would be thrown to the vultures and to the jackals. It was a fearful thought! To have his bones whiten in the sun, and his flesh furnish a banquet for beasts of prey! The robbers were severally tried, all found guilty, and executed. Their heads were placed upon the walls of Ghizny. His trial came last. The day preceding he endeavoured to prepare himself for the fate from which he concluded there could be no escape; but he could not brace his spirit to that pitch of resolution which defies the terrors of death, and renders the condemned man capable of going through the awful details of a public execution, not only without dread, but with perfect tranquillity of spirit. Every one of the robbers--for he had been taken from his dungeon to witness their execution--had met death with that sullen resolution peculiar to fatalists, for such were they; but Eiz-ood-Deen, entertaining a different faith, felt that he was not likely to meet it with equal resolution. The night which preceded his trial was one of dreadful mental excitation. He had no rest; the fever of anxiety was on his brow, and the phantoms of terror flitted round him as he courted a transient oblivion of his woes.