Occasionally sounds of firing, and yells of riotous mobs reached them, but nothing to indicate that an action was being sustained in the city. In fact, with the massacre of the Europeans, and the destruction of the magazine, there was nothing for the mutineers to do but to quarrel amongst themselves and to bury their dead. The city was in their hands. Its almost exhaustless treasures, its priceless works of art, its fabulous wealth, were all at the disposal of the murderous mob. And never, in the annals of history, was city sacked with such ruthless vandalism, or such ferocious barbarity. Some of the most beautiful buildings were levelled to the ground from sheer wantonness. Costly fabrics were brought out and trampled in the dust, and the streets ran red with wine. All the gates were closed, the guards were set. And for a time the hypocritical and treacherous old King believed that his power was supreme, and that the English were verily driven out of India. But he did not look beyond the walls of his city. Had he and his hordes of murderers cared to have turned their eyes towards the horizon of the future, they might have seen the mailed hand of the English conqueror, which, although it could be warded off for a little while, would ultimately come down with crushing effect on the black races. Perhaps they did see this, and, knowing that their power was short-lived, they made the most of it. As the day waned, Harper and his companion began to gaze anxiously in the direction of the avenue, along which they expected Haidee to come. The narrow limits of their hiding-place, and the enforced confinement, were irksome in the extreme, and they were both willing to run many risks for the sake of gaining their liberty. “That is a strange woman,” said Martin, as he sat on a stone, and gazed thoughtfully up to the waving palm boughs. “Who?” asked Harper abruptly, for he had been engaged in cogitations, but Haidee had formed no part of them. “Who? why, Haidee,” was the equally abrupt answer. “In what way do you consider she is strange?” Harper queried, somewhat pointedly. “Well, it is not often an Oriental woman will risk her life for a foreigner, as she is doing for you.” “But she has personal interests to serve in so doing.” “Possibly; but they are of secondary consideration.” “Indeed?” “Yes. There is a feeling in her breast stronger and more powerful than her hatred for the King or Moghul Singh.” “What feeling is that?” “Love.” “Love! For whom?” “For you.” “Well, I must confess that she plainly told me so,” laughed Harper; “but I thought very little about the matter, although at the time I was rather astonished.” “I can understand that. But, however lightly you may treat the matter, it is a very serious affair with her.” “But what authority, my friend, have you for speaking so definitely?”