“Kherla,” said he, “all is lost. We have done everything that brave men could do, and Chittore is at the foe’s mercy. Let us fly, my bride, while the means of escape remain to us. I can take you to a place of safety.” “Who are you?” calmly asked the noble girl. “Is it possible you can ask such a question of Peirup Singh, your accepted bridegroom, who is prepared to convey you from this scene of carnage to a home where happiness awaits you?” “Peirup Singh, the bridegroom of Kherla Nuny, would not dishonour his kindred. The daughter of Jugmul can never unite herself with one who, after having assumed the saffron robe, has run from the foe and hid his recreant head behind stone walls. Dost thou fear to die, Peirup Singh?” “No; but I deem life a gift not to be rashly thrown away when it may be appreciated and enjoyed. If good can be purchased by the sacrifice it is our duty to yield it up, otherwise such a sacrifice becomes a foolish and culpable suicide.” “Is not the avoidance of disgrace a good? Is escape from death, with the brand of infamy upon a man’s brow, no evil? He who would hesitate between life and disgrace, has a petty soul; but he that would accept the one with the polluted inheritance of the other is the worst of recreants. We never can be united, Peirup Singh.” The rejected Rajpoot was deeply mortified--she would not listen to his expostulations; but quitting his presence, turned upon him a look of withering scorn. He was confounded. Between shame and passion he stood aghast. He remained for some time irresolute, when on a sudden the apartment was filled with a thick curling smoke. He rushed into a court towards a passage whence the stifling vapour proceeded. The awful truth at once burst upon his sight. The funereal fire had been kindled in a large subterranean chamber, in which all the members of the family, except the late governors widow and her younger daughter, had assembled, to the number of a hundred and forty-seven. Peirup Singh looked into the opening, and beheld the beautiful Kherla waving a torch with which she had just ignited the combustibles strewed over the apartment. In a few moments the smoke shut out all from his sight, and the crackling flames prevented his ear from catching the groans of the dying. The forked fires rose to the skies with a horrid hissing, as if of demons triumphing in the frightful consummation of death. Both the sight and the sound were horrible. There was no rescuing the infatuated girl from that destruction upon which she had voluntarily rushed. She had already become the virgin bride of death. Young and numerous were the bridesmaids of that fiery marriage. Peirup Singh quitted the scene of horror with a deeply smitten heart. FOOTNOTES: [32] The God of Fire. CHAPTER IV. Akbar sent a Vakeel, offering to the besieged most liberal terms, which were indignantly rejected.