The one he pointed to was the first in the row. He was a tall, powerful fellow. His teeth were set, and his face wore a defiant look. “Yes,” she answered firmly. As she spoke, the man’s eyes met hers. He recognised her, and an expression of ferocious hatred crossed his face. The man was Moghul Singh. “Will you remain here and see justice done, and your vengeance satisfied?” Harper asked of her. “No,” she replied. He led her away, but they had not got very far before the earth trembled with a violent shock. They both turned. The drums were beating, the British flags were waving, the air was filled with smoke and riven limbs. “You are revenged, Haidee,” Harper whispered. “Yes,” she answered. “Let us go.” * * * * * * * In one of the most beautiful of Devonshire villages, Lieutenant-Colonel Harper, now retired from the service, dwells with his wife and family. The beautiful Haidee, thoroughly Anglicised, in the character of Mrs. Harper, is the pride of the county for miles around. She is loved, respected, and honoured. Gordon and his wife still reside in India; he is one of the wealthiest merchants in Calcutta. Their faithful and honoured servant, Zeemit Mehal, after some years of ease and comfort in the service of the master and mistress she had served so well, passed away. She died in the Christian faith, and was buried at Chowringhee, where a handsome marble monument records her virtues and services. FOOTNOTE: [7] The story of how Hodson shot the King’s sons is too well known to need repetition here. The act has been condemned, but those who are acquainted with the facts know that if the sons had not been shot the mob would have rescued them. THE END. _Printed by Cowan & Co., Limited, Perth._