It was true she had seen horrors enough during the mutiny to have hardened her senses to some extent. But this tragedy had been committed in such a diabolical manner, and before her eyes, that it sickened her; and yet she had ridden side by side with the guilty miscreant for some miles. She had had an impression, although it had not been so understood, that on the moment of her arrival she would find Zeemit Mehal waiting, and that the woman would have matured some plan that would have enabled them to effect an immediate escape. But Zeemit was not to be seen. It was an awful moment for Flora. Words would fail to depict the agony of mind and body she endured. She reproached herself for leaving the Palace. She felt that if she had been in possession of a weapon, she could without the slightest compunction have slain the villain who stood beside her. She was suffering the extreme of despair--passing through that stage when all faith even in Heaven is for the time lost. Misfortune had come upon her so suddenly, and pursued her so relentlessly since, that she mentally asked herself why she and her people should have been made the subjects of so much persecution. Moghul Singh grew impatient when he saw that Flora did not comply with his demand and follow him. “Why don’t you come?” he exclaimed angrily. “The time is passing quickly, and I must return to the Palace before daylight.” “I cannot,” she answered. “The atmosphere is stifling, and I am ill.” The man scowled. He felt that he was thwarted, and it irritated him. He seized her hand roughly and would have dragged her in, but she remonstrated. “Why are you so cruel?” she asked. “Did I not come with you of my own free will? Surely you are not so dead to every feeling of pity, but what you can have some consideration for me now that I am ill?” Her argument was effective. He released her hand, and drew back apace. “What do you wish me to do?” he demanded. “Procure me a chair, and let me remain outside on the verandah a little while. The cool air will no doubt revive me.”