For a few days Flora was kept in comparative solitude. She did not see the old King, and Moghul Singh only visited her once a day. She recognised that all chance of escape was hopeless, unless something little short of a miracle occurred to favour her. She could not lower herself over that perpendicular wall. She could not pass the vigilant sentries on the terrace, and the door of her chamber was kept constantly locked, so that she could not go out that way. But if either, or all of these impediments had not existed it would still have been next to impossible to have escaped from the city. As she thought of this she suffered agony of mind that cannot be described. To concentrate her thoughts upon any of the luxuries which surrounded her was out of the question. There was a rare and costly library of books in her room. There were a grand-piano, a harp, and other musical instruments. There were gorgeous birds, and beautiful flowers, but all these things palled upon her senses. How could she enjoy them? Shut off as she was from everything she held dear in the world, she pined until her cheeks grew pale and her eyes lost their brightness. This did not escape the notice of Singh, and he began to think that this Englishwoman, who had put him to so much trouble, was going to die. “Why do you sit moping all day?” he said one morning, on taking her a basket of mangoes. “Why, indeed!” she answered. “Could you expect me to be cheerful and gay when you have brought so much misery upon me? Besides, this captivity is unendurable.” “I don’t know why it should be. But you belong to a dissatisfied race. Your people always want to be masters, and if they can’t get their wishes they commence to whine. The fact is, if you sit brooding in this way all day you will die.” “I hope so,” she cried suddenly, and with an animation that slightly startled him. “I hope so,” she repeated. “I have prayed fervently to Heaven that I may die. If it will only quicken the coming of that event, I will bless you if you will curtail even the limits of the limited space I have. Confine me to the floor of my room. Shut out the light and air. Do what you like, so that you will but end my sufferings. I can assure you I am not afraid to meet death.” But though Miss Meredith spoke the sentiments of her mind, those sentiments were not to be gratified. The King did not intend that she should be sacrificed yet. He had another object in view. So Moghul Singh answered-- “These views are morbid ones. You are melancholy. I will try and obtain you a little more freedom.” “You need not; that would be but mockery,” she cried. But Moghul only laughed as he withdrew. He at once sought the King his master, and represented that he was likely to lose his captive if he kept her in too close confinement.