Then a gong was sounded, and the whole of the vast assemblage fell upon their knees, and bowing their heads to the ground, worshipped the bull. This ceremony being ended, the chief priest advanced to the Nana, bearing in his hand a dish of pure gold. From this dish he took a small wafer, and while his colleagues muttered a low, monotonous chant, and a hundred tom-toms were beaten, he pressed the wafer on the forehead of the Nana, reciting a Brahmin prayer the while. He next took a chaplet of gold, and placed it on Dundoo’s head. Then the Palace seemed to be shaken to its foundation as the artillery thundered out its recognition of the new ruler. The imposing ceremony being ended, and Dundoo having been duly proclaimed Peishwah, the courtiers and servile cringers crowded round the throne to congratulate their chief. Conspicuous amongst these were Azimoolah, Tantia Topee, Teeka Singh, and the brothers of the Nana. It was a proud moment for Azimoolah. He had played a deep and skilful game, and won. The stakes were large, but not all the newly-acquired power of the Nana Sahib would be sufficient to keep them from the destroying Nemesis who was coming on with gigantic strides. Until far into the morning the festivities were kept up. There were torch-light processions, there were grand illuminations, and tremendous bursts of fireworks, accompanied by the hoarse roar of artillery. But all things come to an end, and the enthusiasm of Dundoo Pant’s new subjects, like their fireworks, soon burnt itself out, and there was silence, save for the croaking frogs, the shrill piping cicala, and the under-hum of tens of thousands of insects. In a small room of the Palace, Nana Sahib had sought his couch, after the exciting day’s work. He was weary and worn, and there was a troubled look in his face. His newly-acquired crown did not seem to sit easily. It was stained too indelibly with English blood. Long he tossed about before he sank into an uneasy doze; then in a little while great beads of perspiration stood upon his face. His chest heaved, he clawed the air with his hands, he bit his lip until the blood flowed. The Nana Sahib was dreaming a dream; and this was his dream.