Fidá, scarcely believing in his own deliverance, scarcely able to grasp the scene that had just passed, stumbled from the room, and returned to the place that the King had called his kennel. All that night he tossed and turned on his uneasy bed, sleeping fitfully, glad when he woke out of his dreams. Relief at his scarce-hoped-for escape for a time prevented his facing the future. But at last he began to realize the fact that the hope, so slight and so desperately clung to, of release, was gone: that henceforth he faced a life of unremitting toil, of thankless servitude. Years—centuries, perhaps—must elapse before the Mohammedan rule could spread through Malwa. Nay, India might rise and drive the invaders back across her cruel mountains before the prophet’s followers had looked upon the Dekhan. And as Fidá grimly strangled his new-springing, infant hope, his cup of misery seemed full. Despair gripped him; and in its iron arms he slept. Two days passed before Fidá again visited Ahmed. There was some excuse for his absence, perhaps, for he was now become a slave indeed, and had been given new tasks, one of which might, perhaps, have been regarded as something of a favor. The charge of young Bhavani’s horsemanship was placed with him; and every afternoon, for an hour, he was commanded to lead the young prince up and down the road beside the water palace, instructing him as to his seat, the carrying of weapons, and the management of his animal. Although the spirit of his new work made Fidá ache with the memory of his free warrior days, still he was proud of the confidence reposed in him; and he and the young prince soon took a fancy for each other. At first Rai-Khizar-Pál frequently appeared at some period of the lesson; and, having convinced himself that his slave was really fitted to instil the knightly spirit into his son, Fidá found himself restored to a part of his former favor. The matter of the riding lessons and the companionship with Bhavani were not given up while Fidá lived in Mandu; and, long before he left it, despair over his captivity had been driven from his heart. For forty-eight hours after the return of the ambassadors of ransom, he hugged misery close, and the future was veiled in black. But on the third day his lonely fortitude gave way, and, when Bhavani’s lesson was over, he stole down to the house of eunuchs and into Churi’s familiar room. Ahmed, convalescent now, lay sound asleep upon his bed. But upon Fidá’s appearance, Churi came forth from a shadowy corner, and took him by the hand. “Come, let us sit here, Asra,” he said, in a low voice, at the same time leading his visitor to the place where he had been sitting. Fidá, mildly surprised at his manner, settled himself. Churi sat down at his side, and stared at him, meditatively, for some minutes. Then a distorted smile broke over his face. “I was waiting for thee, prince of the Asra.” “I am no prince,” returned Fidá, savagely. “I—”