This old woman chose the moment that prince Assad left the council, where he went to preside in turn, as a proper opportunity to execute her commission. The prince took the letter, and without even giving himself time to finish the perusal of it, he was so transported with rage, that he drew his sabre, and punished the old woman as she deserved. He then ran to the apartment of queen Haiatalnefous, his mother, with the letter in his hand. He was going to show it her, but she did not give him time, either for that, or even to open his lips. “I know what you want of me,” she cried, “but you are equally as impertinent as your brother Amgiad. Go, retire; and never again appear in my presence.”
Assad was in the utmost astonishment at these words, which he was totally unprepared for: and they put him into so violent a rage, that he was upon the point of showing the most direful marks of it; he, however, had the resolution to restrain himself, and retired without reply, lest any thing should escape him, unworthy of his own greatness of soul. As prince Amgiad had not mentioned his having received a letter the day before, Assad went to his brother to chide him for his silence, and to mingle his own grief with his; for from what his own mother said, he easily conjectured she was not less criminal than queen Badoura.
The two queens were driven almost to desperation at finding the princes possessed of so much virtue, which, instead of bringing them back to a sense of their duty, made them, in fact, renounce every natural and maternal feeling. They consulted together how they should be able to destroy their sons. They made their women believe, that the princes had themselves endeavoured to violate their persons; and attempted to pass off this trick for a reality by the tears they shed, as well as the lamentations and invectives they uttered. They went and slept in the same bed, as if the resistance they thus pretended to have made, had driven them to the greatest distress.
When king Camaralzaman returned the next day from the chase, he was in so great astonishment at finding the two queens in bed together, bathed in tears, and in a condition they so well knew how to feign, that it excited his compassion. He eagerly inquired of them what had happened to them.
To this question the cunning queens only answered by redoubling their sighs and groans, when, at length, after the greatest entreaty, queen Badoura broke silence, and said, “Considering, sire, the deep yet proper grief with which we are afflicted, we ought not even to expose ourselves to the light of the sun, after the outrage which the princes, your sons, with a brutality almost without example, have attempted. By a conspiracy, altogether unworthy of their illustrious birth, they have had the boldness and insolence during your absence to attempt our honour. We entreat your majesty not to make any further inquiries, our grief is sufficient to explain the rest.”
The king then ordered the two princes to be called, and would absolutely have killed them with his own hand, if old king Armanos, his father-in-law, who happened to be present, had not prevented him. “What, my son,” he cried out, “are you going to do? Do you wish to embrue your hands, nay your very palace, with your own blood? There are other means of punishing them, if they are really guilty of any crime.” In this manner he endeavoured to appease him, and entreated him thoroughly to examine, whether it was quite certain they had committed the crime which was laid to their charge.
It was no difficult task for Camaralzaman so far to get the better of his rage as to refrain from being the executioner of his own children. Having, however, ordered them to be arrested, he desired an emir, called Giondar, to come in the evening to him; and he then commanded him to conduct the princes to the outside of the city, in what part, and to any distance he pleased, and there to take their lives. As a proof also of having executed the orders he thus received, Giondar was not to return without their clothes.
Giondar continued travelling the whole night; and the next morning, as he got off his horse, he informed the princes, with tears in his eyes, of the order he had received. “This command, princes,” said he to them, “is most cruel; and to me it is a mortification of the most painful kind, to have been chosen for the executioner. I wish to God that I could avoid it.”—“Do your duty,” replied they, “we know well enough that you are not the cause of our death; and sincerely pardon you.” In saying this they embraced and took an eternal farewell of each other with so much tenderness and affection, that it was a long time before they could separate. Prince Assad was then the first, who prepared himself to receive his death from the hands of Giondar. “Begin with me,” said he, “that I may not have the grief of seeing my dear brother Amgiad expire.” Amgiad opposed this plan, and Giondar was unable, without again renewing his tears, to witness their amiable contest, which so evidently proved the sincerity and strength of their mutual affection.
This interesting dispute was at last terminated by their entreating Giondar to bind them both together, and place them in such a way, that they might both, as nearly as possible, receive their death at the same moment. “Do not refuse,” they said to him, “to afford two unfortunate brothers the consolation of dying together, who have, not excepting even their innocence in this affair, from their earliest infancy, possessed every thing in common.” Giondar granted the two princes what they wished. He bound them, and having placed them, as he thought, in the most convenient manner to strike off both their heads at one blow, he asked them if they had any request to make to him before their death. “There is only one thing,” answered the princes, “which we wish you to do; and that is, to assure the king, our father, upon your return, that we die innocent: but that we nevertheless do not impute to him the crime of shedding our blood. We know, indeed, that he is not acquainted with the truth of what we are accused.” Giondar promised not to fail doing what they desired, and at the same instant drew out his scimitar; his horse, who was fastened to a tree, alarmed at this action, and also at the glittering of the blade, broke his bridle, and began to gallop over the country at full speed.
This horse was very valuable, and also very richly caparisoned, and Giondar did not at all like the thoughts of losing him. Vexed, therefore, at this accident, instead of cutting off the heads of the princes, he threw down his scimitar and ran after his horse, endeavouring to catch him. The horse, who was both vigorous and playful, galloped about for some time just before Giondar, and led him, by the pursuit, close to a wood, into which he ran. The emir followed him; when the neighing of the horse disturbed a lion, who was asleep. The lion instantly roused himself, but instead of pursuing the horse, he ran directly at Giondar, as soon as he perceived him.