It was a long walk to the end of the plateau. Oman wondered a little why the conquerors had made the palace, instead of the town, their headquarters, never dreaming that, in six hours, Osman and his army had swept Mandu from one end to the other, after the manner of a race long accustomed to conquest. When the prisoner and his guides passed the water-palace, Oman gazed sorrowfully upon its dark outline and its empty door. Where was Zenaide, the Lady of Mandu? Alas! Who could say? Finally, when the captive was on the verge of exhaustion, they reached the palace courtyard, and here, at last, found a scene of life. In the centre of the court, where so many holy sacrifices had burned to Agni and the Hindoo Trinity, was an immense bonfire, at which torn and weary soldiers were cooking food. Everywhere were men, talking, shouting, laughing in their barbarous tongue. But nowhere could Oman find a familiar face. Where were all the slaves that had been wont to pass and repass through this court by night and day? Where were the officials? Had they followed the fate of their defenders? At the thought, Oman trembled like a woman. However, he and his guides crossed the square, and entered the audience hall, where there was a scene indeed. The place was lighted by a hundred torches and hanging-lamps that threw a yellow, smoky glare over the confusion below. An impromptu feast had been prepared for the general and his officers; and, the wine-cellars found and rifled, these good Moslems for one night waived the tenets of their creed and celebrated the day’s carnage after the Delhi[10] fashion, by drinking themselves either maudlin or insane. As Oman, in his blood-stained robes, appeared upon the threshold, Osman, the great general, not so drunk as his men, was walking toward the daïs at the head of the room, where stood the royal throne. Catching sight of the figure in the doorway, however, the conqueror paused, with one foot on the step and turned a little toward him. Oman got a distinct picture of him there. The leonine head was bare, and the heavy, whitish hair and beard framed a face of fierce and vigorous strength. Most of his armor had been removed; and he was clad in a crimson robe, heavily embroidered and studded with jewels. His undertunic was a vivid green; and in his belt was stuck a dagger, the hilt of which flashed with emeralds and blood-stones. This was Osman ibn-Omar el-Asra, head of that perishable race; and he turned, in his hall of conquest, to meet the deep-eyed gaze of him who wore the lost charm of the Asra. [10] The law against drunkenness was never strictly kept by the Mohammedans during the conquest of India. The Delhi kings were notorious for debauchery.