From remote ages Gwalior had been one of the chief cities of India, owing to the immense natural strength of its position. Many races, succeeding one another, had reared their dwellings about the foot of the huge pile of rock, rising in grim, deep shadowed precipices on all sides, two to three hundred feet from a broken plain, to a plateau crowned by the massive fortress, a mile and a half in length by three hundred yards wide. By a single narrow path alone could the summit be gained. Numerous had been the splendid palaces, temples, and mausoleums erected in the vicinity by dynasties swept away, and ruins only of the Baradari, once the most superb hall of audience in the world, marks the site of the colossal residence of the Moguls. In part skirting the suburbs of the city, the Morar river winds northward to its junction with the Chambal, thence its waters reach the Jumna, to mingle finally with those of the holy Granges. Beyond the Morar, at a considerable distance rocky hills bordering the plain, afford a first line of defense, the few defiles being easily rendered impassable by fortified works. Such was the place the Rani of Jhansi's daring spirit had determined to seize. It was rich in long accumulated treasure to refill an empty purse, rich in the heirlooms of one of the greatest Native families, and in war material to arm new levies of troops, and thus prolong the strife to an indefinite period. As a prize to fall into her hands, there was scarcely its equal at the moment in India. The moral effect of the successful accomplishment of the act, upon both parties to the struggle, would almost equal that of the capture of Delhi at the commencement of hostilities. On the morning of the Thirtieth of May, Maharaja Jaiaji Rao Sindhia, the ruling prince of the great Maratha house of Gwalior, had finished his devotions and was about to partake of his usual frugal early meal of milk, bread, and fruit, when a servant delivered a surprising, and, on the whole, an unwelcome piece of news. An emissary of the Rani of Jhansi had arrived at the palace, and requested an immediate audience with his Highness. During the year past, Sindhia had heard much of the redoutable Princess of Jhansi. He had been told of her beauty, her wisdom, and her valor. He had followed with sympathetic interest the capable administration of the government of her state, her defense of Jhansi, and latterly, with secret regret, the misfortunes which had descended on her head. So much for his private feeling toward the Rani. But in public he had followed the advice of his astute minister, Dinkar Rao, who persuaded him to remain an ally of the Foreigners, against his natural impulse to cast in his lot with the Native cause. This, for a sufficient, if not a patriotic reason. While Sindhia bore no love for the Foreigners, he experienced less for the Peshwa as the supreme head of the Marathas, and less still, if not actual hatred, for the ruling Mohammedan family of Delhi.