She took the crown from her head and gave it to an attendant, replacing it with the folds of a shawl. Then she moved down amid the cheering soldiers thronging the hall and passages to the steps of the portico. There a vast multitude confronted her eyes. Torches flared upward to illumine exultant faces. Their plaudits were redoubled as they beheld her come forth attended by the other leaders of the cause. She moved a few paces in front of the pillars rising on either side, and stood gazing wistfully, wonderingly upon the scene. It was to her, and to her alone, that their admiration, their love went forth in a whirlwind of vociferous applause; but she failed to grasp its entire significance. She could have demanded the Peshwa's crown, and they would have set it on her head. She received the tribute only as a vindication of her actions in upholding her rights with the sword. It was her hour of triumph. The scene was less to the liking of the Rao Sahib even than that within the palace. The Rani of Jhansi had clearly become the fountain of honor and authority with the people. Had he understood her nature better he need not have harbored fear. Presently those nearest to the portico would have it that they could gaze upon her face more clearly. Obediently she threw back the folds of her shawl, disclosing all her features to their view--strength, determination, heroism, displayed in their classic outlines. "Ah, dear Rani," a trooper cried. "Beautiful Queen of Jhansi. Behold how the people do love thee." The words smote her heart, causing a spring of emotion to burst forth. On the instant she became the woman in place of the redoutable warrior. She turned as if seeking a place of retreat to hide her feelings. Prasad in waiting near by, noticed her appeal, and strode to her side. The Defender of Jhansi, the Victor of Gwalior, raised her hands to her face, laid her head on his shoulder, and wept. Prasad gently led the Rani from the scene. He conducted her through a silent corridor to a door that opened into the palace gardens. Thence to a pavilion set apart for the use of the ladies of Sindhia's _zanana_. The noise and uproar died away, the stillness of night fell upon them, for long neither spoke. At last the Rani broke the trend of a deep reverie. "Prasad," she asked. "Art thou not going to the banquet? See, there are lights yonder in the windows of the great hall. Thou wilt miss the feast in honor of our victory." "What care I for feasts, dear Lady," he returned, "so that I may stay with thee." "Thou art changed then, Prasad"? she replied. "How dost thou mean"? he questioned. "Changed in some manner I pray God I am; but never was there a time since I first set eyes upon thy graceful form, when I hungered for aught else, but thee, fair Rani." [Illustration: "Never have I hungered for aught else but thee, fair Rani."--Page 267.]