He passed out of the room, and Wanna locked the door after him. It was an inexpressible relief to Flora when he had gone. But when she raised her head, and her eyes fell upon Wanna’s face, she shuddered. It was a face scarcely human in its expression of hate. She turned to Zeemit--she had given her hope in Meerut--why had she failed her now? She could read little or nothing in the dusky features. Her heart sank, for the glimmering ray that had supported her hitherto seemed to fade entirely. “Come,” said Wanna, spurning the trembling girl with her foot, “here is food for you; I suppose I must keep life in you until Jewan has sucked your sweetness. What he can see in you I know not. It is a mad infatuation, and he will get the better of it; but if I had my way I would torture you. I would spoil your beauty--I would pluck your eyes out--I would lop off a limb from your body every day--I would burn you with hot irons. Ah, ah, ah! it would be sport! Eh, Zeemit, what say you? We have been ground as corn in a mill by these accursed Feringhees; and now that our day has come, have we not a right to be glad?” She hummed the air of an Indian ditty, and fairly danced about the room with fiendish glee. “Oh, woman!” moaned the unhappy Flora, “if you are not altogether inhuman, have pity, and kill me.” “Ugh, bah, pish! pity indeed,” cried Wanna, moving about backwards and forwards in that restless and strange manner peculiar to caged, wild animals. “Have we ever had pity from your countrymen? Have you not crushed us into the earth?--subdued us with fire and sword? And now that our power is coming back we know well how to retaliate.” As she spoke she spat upon the floor twice, and made a sort of hissing sound with her lips.[5] “Why do you not get up?” asked Zeemit, in a tone that contrasted strangely with the savageness and cruelty of Wanna. The ray brightened again for Flora. She caught comfort from that voice; but when she looked into the face she saw nothing to justify the inference she had drawn. The kindliness displayed in Zeemit’s voice did not escape Wanna, who turned sharply upon her country-woman and cried-- “How is this? You speak to the white-faced cat as if she were your pet dove, instead of an enemy.” “Scarcely an enemy, Wanna. Her only crime seems to be that she is a Feringhee.” “She is a beast.” “She is a woman, and I feel as a woman should do for her.” Zeemit’s words were to Flora like water to the parched earth. They gave her hope, they gave her joy; she drank them in with avidity, and gained strength. She rose up and would have clung around the neck of her ayah, had not the attitude of Wanna appalled her. The hag stood facing Zeemit. The bangles on her legs and arms chinked as she shook with passion. She was clawing the air, and almost foaming at the mouth. She struggled to speak, but her passion well-nigh choked her. Words came at last.