The Palace of the Mogul, in Delhi, was one that might have vied with any similar building in the whole of India; it was a majestic pile, worthy of the traditions that surrounded it, and the noble line of kings who had dwelt beneath its roof, but who were now but a name, for their ancient splendour had set never to rise again. In one of the stateliest rooms in the stately Palace sat the aged King--a man upon whose brow the years had gathered thickly and set their stamp. A long beard, white as the driven snow, reached to his waist; his face was wrinkled and puckered, and his eyes dull and bleared, but they were restless, and plainly told that within the spirit was chafing. Around him was a brilliant retinue, and on each side of the marble hall stood an armed guard. The King was seated on a raised dais, and was holding counsel with some of his ministers. “Things work well,” he replied, in a low voice, to some remark that had just been made by one of his courtiers. “Our sun is rising, and power is coming back to us; we shall yet live to enjoy some of the glory which made the reign of our predecessors so conspicuous before these cursed Feringhees came and trampled on our power. Death to them!” He ground his teeth and clenched his emaciated hand, and his eyes sparkled for a moment with a burning feeling of hatred. “Do not distress yourself, great lord,” said a tall and handsome woman, whose massive bangles, flashing diamonds, and gold chain, bespoke her one of the King’s favourites. “The power of these foreigners is great, and better to submit to it than to rise only to fall again and be crushed.” The King turned upon her, his whole frame quivering with wrath. “Peace, fool--beast!” he cried; “thy sympathies have ever been with the hated race. Beneath thy breast there beats a traitorous heart. Have a care. Bridle thy tongue, or thy head may pay the forfeit.” “I own no traitor’s heart, my lord and king,” the woman answered, as she drew herself up proudly. “Peace, Haidee, I tell thee!” cried the monarch, in a voice husky with passion; “we brook no insolence, and no answer. Thou art a slave. Know thy place.” The eyes of Haidee burned and her lips quivered, while her bosom heaved with suppressed emotion. “Take my life if it so pleases you, my lord, but to your face I say I am no slave,” she answered.