Anxious to get away from the hateful presence of the King, Flora allowed herself to be led out by Moghul, who was followed by Zula. He conducted her through a long corridor, until a room was reached. Then he turned to Zula. “I give her into your charge,” he said. “Remember, you are responsible for her.” “Never fear but what I will render a good account of her,” Zula answered laughingly. “Come, madam,” turning to Flora, “and let me see if I cannot alter some of your exalted notions. What I am you must be, either by force or persuasion; and, believe me, it will be far better for you to yield to the latter.” It was a luxurious apartment. Splendid mirrors adorned the walls, and costly silken curtains hung at the windows. Marble statuary peeped from clusters of magnificent flowers and ferns, and some choice water-colour drawings by English artists were suspended on the walls by gold cords. A harp stood at one end of the room. There was also a grand-piano, while a guitar was lying on an ottoman. Tastefully arranged in various corners of the room were gilded stands, and on these stands were cages of gorgeously-plumaged birds, that made the air melodious with their songs. “This is my prison,” said Zula, as Flora threw herself on to a couch, and burst into tears. “Here his Majesty visits me, and I am happy--oh, so happy. Tral, lal, la, la, la.” She sat down at the piano, and with light and rapid fingers ran over the keys; and then, in a sweet, well-modulated voice, sang-- “My heart was a garden Where fresh leaves grew; Flowers there were many, And weeds a few; Cold winds blew, And the frosts came thither; For flowers will wither, And weeds renew! “Whither, oh! whither Have fled away The dreams and hopes Of my early day? Ruined and grey Are the towers I builded; And the beams that gilded-- Ah! where are they?” As she finished the last line, she jumped from her seat, and, throwing the music carelessly on one side, laughed loudly. “Moghul, you need not remain,” she said, addressing Singh, who lingered in the doorway. “I have an hour in which to convert this weeping beauty--and I will convert her, never fear. Convey my respectful salaams to his Majesty, Moghul, and ask him if he will deign to honour me with his presence at the end of that time, to see what progress I have made.” Moghul withdrew, and as he closed the door, he turned the key in the lock. Flora was still sitting on the couch, with her face buried in her hands. Zula sprang to the door, and listened for a minute; then she hurried across the room, and seized Flora’s wrist. “Why do you weep, woman?” she asked, in a hurried and low tone. Flora looked up in astonishment, struck with the sudden change in the manner of her companion. “Who are you?” she asked, “and what are you doing here?” “I am a wretched, miserable, broken-hearted woman,” answered Zula.