“Why do you remind me that I have been a slave?” he answered, his eyes glowing with hatred. “Why do you utter a name in my ear that only serves to turn my heart to stone. Walter Gordon is your lover. I offer all that he can--love and faithfulness. You spurn me, and choose him. I hate him. Do you hear? And do you think that, after having risked so much to secure you, I shall let you escape? No; I’m for Cawnpore, and you go with me.” She threw up her arms, and, with a pitiful cry, fell upon her face on the floor. “The right stuff is in your nature, Jewan,” remarked the orderly, as he assisted his comrade to lift the insensible Flora to the couch. “I am steel and iron,” was the answer; “that is, so far as these Feringhees are concerned.” “That is good,” the other replied. “We must not know pity--we must be deaf to all supplications. I have a prisoner. The King gave him into my charge, and he shall die by my hand the moment the first batch of our comrades enters Delhi from Meerut.” “Ah! is he an important one?” “He is an English officer!” “An English officer?” “Yes; from Meerut.” “Indeed. What is his name?” “Harper; and he wears the uniform of a lieutenant.” “Fate assists us,” Jewan answered. “I know the man. He is a friend of Walter Gordon’s, and once counselled him to discharge me. Kill him, kill him, Moghul! Or let me do it for you,” and, as the man spoke, a demoniacal expression passed over his face. The devil, that had so long been kept down by the bonds of civilisation, was rising now, and the ferocity of his nature was asserting itself. All the examples that had been set him, all the kindness that had been shown to him, and all the prayers of Christianity that had been breathed into his ear, were blown to the winds, and he was simply the Hindoo, burning with hatred for the white man, and thirsting for his blood. “I can do all the killing that is to be done, myself,” Moghul answered. “I am no chicken-heart. Besides, the King offers fifty rupees to every one who shall slay a British officer. Hark!” he suddenly cried, as the beat of a drum and the blast of a bugle were heard; “that is the signal that our comrades have come.” He was about to hurry away, when Jewan stopped him. “Stay a minute,” he said, “I must leave for Cawnpore immediately, or the road may be stopped by the English. Where shall I get a good horse and conveyance?” “Go round to the Palace stables, and take your pick. But you must away at once, or every gate will be closed, and you will be unable to pass out. Farewell, the Prophet smile on you!” Moghul Singh hurried away, and Jewan was alone with the still insensible girl. He looked at her with admiration, as she lay there, ghastly pale and ill, but still beautiful. He bent over her, and, pressing his hot lips on her cold forehead, he murmured-- “You are mine; and I thank the fate that placed you in my power! This is a moment to have lived for.”