Harper struggled with his feelings. He was on the horns of a dilemma, and the way out of the difficulty did not seem straight. His arm was still around Haidee. He felt her warm breath on his cheek, and heard the throbbing of her heart. Her upturned eyes were full of an ineffable expression of love, of trust, of hope--hope in him. How could he wither that hope--misplace that trust? How could he leave her in the city at the mercy of the treacherous King? As he thought of these things, he wished that she had never opened his prison door, but had left him to meet death alone. For cold, indeed, would have been his nature, and stony his heart, if he had not felt the influence of her great beauty. To look into her face was to feel sorely tempted to cast his fortunes on the hazard of the die, and sacrifice all for this woman’s sake. But the inward voice of conscience kept him back. Wife, country, honour, were in the scale, and they must have weight against all other considerations. “No,” he thought, “rather than I would be branded with the name of traitor, I will walk boldly forth into the heart of the city, and bare my breast to the insurgents’ bullets.” A deep sigh from Haidee called him back to a sense of his position. He led her to the stone seat, and said kindly-- “Why do you sigh? I know it is the language of the heart, when the heart is sad; but, have hope; brighter days may be dawning, and in your own lovely valleys you may yet know happiness and peace.” She turned upon him almost fiercely, and her eyes flashed with passion. “Do you mock me? Why do you speak to me of peace and happiness? Would you tear the panther from its young, and tell it to pine not? Would you torture the sightless by stories of the beautiful flowers, of the glittering stars, of the bright sun? Would you bid the dove be gay when its mate was killed? If you would not do these things, why bid my heart rejoice when it is sad? why talk to me of peace, when peace is for ever flown? But why should I speak of my wrongs? Even now, Moghul Singh is on his way to Cawnpore, to bring back one of your own countrywomen.” “To bring back one of my countrywomen!” cried Harper in astonishment. “What do you mean?” “Yesterday, there came from Meerut, a man by the name of Jewan Bukht. He brought with him, as captive, an Englishwoman--young and beautiful.” Harper’s nerves thrilled as the thought flashed through his brain that this Englishwoman could be no other than Miss Meredith; for Walter Gordon had told him what he had learnt from Flora with reference to Jewan Bukht. He almost feared to ask the question that rose to his lips, and not without a struggle did he do so. “Her name--did you learn her name--Haidee?” “No.” “What was Bukht’s object in bringing her here?”