By this time the road, which had hitherto run through grain-fields, approached a building set, as was the custom with many Indian temples and palaces, in the midst of a square pool of water. The structure was built of white stone, in the usual massive and grotesque Indian style, and seemed only approachable by a narrow path between two glassy sheets of water, which reflected in their mirror-depths the clumps of wild cotton trees, graceful bamboos, and feathery tamarinds by which they were surrounded. The eyes of the captives, turned from this structure only when it lay behind them, were instantly fixed upon another, infinitely greater, which a new bend in the road disclosed a few hundred yards beyond. The entrance to this new building was filled with a bustling throng, for here the soldiers were dismounting. It was the dwelling of the rulers of Mandu; and in five minutes more the captives themselves had halted in the huge, unpaved courtyard round which the palace was built. The sun had now set and the brief twilight sunk into darkness. A bonfire burned already in the centre of the courtyard, and its fitful, wavering light accentuated the activity of the scene. The Rajah and a few of the officials had disappeared into the palace; but it seemed as if all the rest of the little army, together with a hundred attendants, were crowded into the courtyard:—soldiers, slaves, eunuchs, page-boys, villagers, and women,—women unveiled, unabashed, openly interested in their fellow-creatures. Finally, in the portal of the north wing, quiet, calm, betraying no sign of weariness, stood Ragunáth, the right hand of the Rajah, that small, slender, well-favored man, with the eyes of the lynx, an intellect keen as a steel blade, and a constitution that was superior to time and disease. He was still clad in his crimson riding-costume. The turban had not been lifted from his head; but he carried in his hand a thin, ebony staff. He was engaged in directing the dismount and disposal of the captives. Already those that had come on foot had been led away by guards into the south wing; and now, under his low-voiced commands, two men were lifting the riders from their mules and, as soon as they could stand, sending them after the others. One of these, only, made any resistance to this plan. He was the boy who had ridden second in the line, behind his leader. Spent as he was, this child struggled violently against separation from his master, at whose commands only he finally consented to be led away. And now this master remained alone, upon his mule, his face turned to Ragunáth, and in his eyes the faintest expression of dislike. “What is thy name, captive?” demanded the Indian, in a flat, low tone. “Fidá Ibn-Mahmud Ibn-Hassan el-Asra,” returned the captive. “The son of the Mohammedan leader?” “His brother’s son.” “Ah! then you are not a prince?” “I am the head of our race. My father is dead.”