He woke by degrees. First there was the consciousness of light; secondly of a weight upon his heart; thirdly it was extraordinarily still. Evidently he was not in camp. Was it Delhi—the palace? He opened his eyes to see—and he saw. Memory brought a groan to his lips; but he stifled it, half-uttered, and lay still to consider his situation. The first thing that occurred to him was that it must be past the hour of morning prayer. Rising, then, he turned his back to the sunlight that streamed in through a half-screened window, and, having gone through the form of ablution permitted when water is not at hand, he began the _Niyyat_, speaking in Arabic. The syllables fell lovingly from his lips, and his heart swelled with the comfort of his religion. Except the moment at Ragunáth’s door on the previous evening, this was the first solitude that had been his since the day of battle in which he had been taken captive by the Rajah. During the succeeding days he had stumbled through his prayers as he lay bound in tents, or rode, strapped to the mule, along rough paths through the hills. At last he was alone, unhampered, free to take the attitudes of prayer, free also to whisper the words of his own tongue, which of late years he had seldom used in ordinary intercourse with men. Yet Fidá was not to end his devotions as he had begun them. He was standing with eyes cast down, repeating the _Subhán_: “Holiness to thee, O God! And praise be to thee! Great is thy name, Great is thy greatness; There is no deity but thee!” when a figure suddenly appeared in the doorway, and the captive’s words were stopped short as he met the eyes of Rai-Khizar-Pál, his conqueror. So amazed was he that Fidá forgot to kneel or to give any sign of abasement. Thus they stood, gazing each at the other. Perhaps some mute message was carried from the slave to the master; for the Rajah’s expression little by little softened, till at length he asked quietly: “What is it thou doest here, Asra?” Fidá bent his head. “Mighty lord, I prayed.” The Rajah smiled slightly, lifted one of his hands to the curtain beside him, grasped it, and settled into an easier position. “Thou art not a good servant, Asra,” he observed at last. “It has not hitherto been my place to serve, O King.” There was another pause, while the Rajah’s eyes travelled around the room. “Thou hast slept here?” “Yes.” “And why? Knowest thou not the house of slaves?” For a second Fidá hesitated. Then he answered, “Too well I knew it, Lord Rajah.” “What sayest thou?” “Thou, O King—wouldst thou lie among the base born?” “_I!_—I am Kshatriya! Among you there is no caste.” “There is pride.” Rai-Khizar laughed. “Thou’st a tongue, slave. It were my duty to have thee whipped. But this day is a day devoted to the gods. Begone, then. Get thee a morning meal and wait for a message from me. Yet remember this, my Asra: here there is no prince but me. If thou anger me, I shall have thee killed.”