From every street, and corner, and hole, and alley--from the bazaars and villages--poured forth streams of maddened natives, bent upon murder and plunder. And “death to the Feringhees!” was the one cry heard above all others. Like wild beasts from their lairs, seeking whom they might devour, came the hordes; and as the European officers rushed from their bungalows, they were shot down, and fell riddled with bullets. Flora Meredith stood in the verandah of her bungalow like one turned to stone. She was horror-stricken, and could not move. At the first alarm her mother, maddened with despair, had rushed out into the compound, and was shot through the heart; and there she lay now, her dead eyes staring blankly up to the red sky. A man hurriedly crossed the compound. He sprang into the verandah, he stood beside Flora, he passed his arm around her waist. It aroused her to a sense of her awful position. She turned and confronted the intruder. Her eyes fell upon Jewan Bukht. “You brute!” she cried, “how dare you take such a liberty?” He laughed, and tightened his hold, as she struggled to free herself. “I told you we should meet again,” he said, with withering irony. “It is not yet too late; I can yet save you. Say you will marry me.” By a desperate effort she freed herself from his grasp, and, recoiling away, exclaimed: “Never! I would rather die a hundred deaths.” He laughed again--a bitter, cunning laugh--and made a movement as if to seize her. “Then you shall die,” he exclaimed, unsheathing a long, glittering native dagger. He was intercepted by a woman--a native. It was Zeemit Mehal. “Stay, Jewan!” said Zeemit. “If you are rough with this pretty prize, she may injure herself. She is a bonny bird, and should not ruffle her plumage. She shall be yours. I give her to you.” “May God in heaven protect me!” murmured Flora, as, sinking on her knees, she buried her face in her hands. “Hush!” whispered Zeemit, as she bent down, unperceived by Jewan, “obey me in all things, and I will save you.” “Come, my pretty dove,” said Zeemit, aloud, as she took the hands of Flora, and raised her to her feet, “life is sweet, and Jewan will be good to you. Besides, our time has come. The Feringhees have ruled us long enough. We triumph now, and resistance on your part will be useless. You must go with Jewan.” “That is well said, Zeemit,” cried the man; “and I will give you jewels enough to make you as rich as a Ranee for your service. I shall take this white-faced woman to the Palace of the Mogul in Delhi.” “But you must not leave me behind!” exclaimed Zeemit in well-feigned alarm. “Leave you behind--certainly not!” answered Jewan, with a laugh. “You shall go and be keeper to my bird, and clip her wings if she wants to fly. I have a buggy close at hand; we will go together. Stay here until I bring it up.” He went out into the compound, and when he had gone Flora flung herself at the feet of Zeemit.