But Flora knew nothing of the demoniacal feelings which stirred the breasts of these men. Her walks were always companionless, excepting when occasionally Moghul Singh forced his hateful presence upon her. This man grew more and more familiar in his conversation. And it was evident that it was not solely on the King’s account that he paid her so much attention, and guarded her so jealously. On the contrary, he looked with contemptuous pity on the imbecile representative of the House of Timour. But to him he owed his position, and to oppose his wishes was to court his own downfall. Yet, notwithstanding the risk, he daily allowed himself to be tempted from his allegiance by the pale, but beautiful, face of the Englishwoman. His passion got the better of his judgment, and he ventured at last to make advances to her on his own behalf. “You look better since I obtained permission from his Majesty for you to use the garden,” he said one day as he conveyed some flowers to her room. “I am better,” she answered. “Increased freedom has made my existence slightly less painful; but still life seems little better than a mockery.” “That is because you are morbid. Life has plenty of enjoyment if you like to extract it.” “How,” she cried, “how am I--a wretched prisoner in the hands of my country’s enemies, and separated from friends and relations--to extract enjoyment from such a miserable existence as mine?” “Pshaw,” he answered. “You would sacrifice yourself to no purpose. Why not adapt yourself to circumstances? Your people are fond of talking about the ‘philosophy of resignation.’ Why don’t you act up to it now? You are a captive. You cannot alter that condition. You are reserved for the King’s plaything. That may not afford you much pleasure to contemplate. Moreover, I may tell you this--his Majesty intends in a few days to hand you over to one of his sons, and you will be conveyed away from here.” Flora started with alarm as she heard this, and her face blanched. “Never,” she cried; “I will throw myself over that parapet before I will suffer such an indignity.” Moghul smiled. “That would be madness indeed,” he said. “If the idea of becoming the property of the King’s son is so distasteful to your feelings, you may avoid it in a more pleasant way than by mangling that beautiful figure of yours by such a nasty fall.” “How?” she queried eagerly. “By escaping.” “Escaping!” she echoed as she stared at the man in astonishment. “Yes.” “Are you mocking me? Or has your heart been softened by some pity for my miserable condition?” “I am not mocking you.” “Then do you offer me escape?” “Yes.” “On what conditions?” she asked, agitated with hopes and fears. He smiled again, and drew closer to her. “You are eager,” he replied. “The conditions are simple.” “Name them then, if they are not dishonourable.” “Bah! such a term is inadmissible to one in your position.” “I think I gather something of your meaning,” she exclaimed, in alarm.