“We can torture them.” “Ah, ah, ah! You are a grim joker, Azi. I would torture them--I would burn them with hot iron--I would flay them, but these cursed English seem almost indifferent to physical pain. We must torture their minds, Azimoolah--break their hearts. We must invent some means of making them feel how thoroughly they are humbled.” “The invention will not be difficult, your Highness. Set them to grind corn!” “Ah! that is a good idea.” “They will know well that it is a symbol of the uttermost degradation. In their own biblical records they will remember that it is stated that the sign of bondage in Eastern lands was for the women to be compelled to grind corn with the hand-mills.” “It shall be as you suggest,” answered the Nana, thoughtfully. “And when they have, through these means, been impressed with a sense of our power and their own thorough humiliation, then consummate your victory.” “How, Azi?” “By slaughtering them.” “Hush, Azi--we will discuss that matter later on. For the present let them be conveyed to the Beebee-Ghur and carefully guarded.” The Beebee-Ghur was a small house situated between the native city and the river. It had originally been built by a European for his native mistress, but for some years had been occupied by a humble native scrivener. It was a small, ill-ventilated place, with but wretched accommodation. The walls were blackened with smoke, and the furniture of the place consisted of a few rough deal chairs and tables. But into this place were crowded over two hundred women and children. Left there, without any certainty as to the fate for which they had been reserved, they felt all the agony of horrid suspense, and they shuddered as they thought what that fate might be. Madness seized some, and a merciful death speedily ended the sufferings of a few others. When Nana Sahib and Azimoolah had seen their captives safely guarded, and some of the most delicate and refined ladies seated on the ground, grinding corn, they turned their horses’ heads towards the Bhitoor Palace. “This has been an exciting day, your Highness,” Azimoolah remarked. “Yes,” was the monosyllabic, and somewhat sullen answer. “Why does your face wear a frown?” asked Azimoolah. “Your star has risen, and in its resplendent light you should be all smiles and mirth.” “So I will try to be, Azi--so I will try to be,” and, laughing with a low hollow laugh, Nana Sahib put spurs to his horse, and sped towards his Palace, as if already he saw the brilliancy of that star darkening by a rising shadow--the shadow of a grim, retributive Nemesis.