“Tut, tut, child; you talk foolishly. It is your very youth that constitutes your charm. But it has ever been the fatal mistake of your countrywomen to despise us; because our skins are of a different colour. Times have changed. We are the conquerors now, and the erst-while slaves become the masters. Your proud race shall bend and bow to us now. We will set our feet upon your necks.” “And is it to tell me this that you have sent for me?” asked Flora, in an impatient tone. “No, no,” mumbled the King. “I said it was to gaze upon your beauty.” “Shame upon you!” she cried. “If that is your only purpose, I command you to let me go.” “Command, eh? Such a word becomes you not, my child. We do not allow ourselves to be commanded. Your life is in my power. If I but raise my finger, you would die. Have a care--have a care, girl.” “If but the raising of your finger can do so much, I implore you, in the name of all you worship, to raise it and release me. Nay, doom me to the worst of deaths, so that you will only end my misery.” “No; your time has not yet come. We will reserve you for another purpose.” “Ah! what do you mean?” cried Flora, as she pressed her hand to her temples to still their throbbing. The King smiled, and rubbed his palsied hands together. “You may be useful,” he answered. “We will keep you as a hostage; and though our age precludes the likelihood of our gaining your favour, we have sons, and one of them shall try his hand at breaking your proud spirit. He has succeeded before now with your countrywomen, and I tell thee, girl, he will succeed with you.” Flora shuddered. She inwardly prayed that she might be stricken with a merciful death upon the spot on which she stood, for she knew that she could expect no pity from her foes; and yet she cried-- “Oh, man, let your heart thrill with one touch of sympathy for me. I am a woman, helpless and alone; let that fact appeal to your manhood. Spare me. Let me go free. Do one good act, and rest assured it will bring its own reward.” “Bah!” exclaimed the King angrily, “you people are too much given to preaching. But I am deaf to your appeals; I am steeled against your entreaties. I tell you my son shall make you his slave.” “Never!” cried Flora, drawing herself up, while her face was scarlet with indignation. “I defy you. You can but kill me, and it were better to suffer death twenty times than become the plaything for you or yours.” “We shall see, we shall see,” chuckled the King. “We have already one of your countrywomen here; she was more fiery than you at first, but we tamed her, and now she is as obedient as a well-trained dog. She is our tool--we use her. She shall take you in hand. Ho, Moghul!” Moghul Singh appeared in obedience to the King’s call. “Moghul, this woman is defiant.” “Is she so, your Majesty?” “Yes; and we must humble her. Where is Zula? Let her be conducted into our presence.” Moghul bowed and withdrew.