In a small room of the Palace, Nana Sahib had sought his couch, after the exciting day’s work. He was weary and worn, and there was a troubled look in his face. His newly-acquired crown did not seem to sit easily. It was stained too indelibly with English blood. Long he tossed about before he sank into an uneasy doze; then in a little while great beads of perspiration stood upon his face. His chest heaved, he clawed the air with his hands, he bit his lip until the blood flowed. The Nana Sahib was dreaming a dream; and this was his dream.
He saw a hand—a white hand—small at first, but it gradually grew, and grew, and grew, until it assumed gigantic proportions. It stretched out its massive and claw-like fingers towards Dundoo, who fled in terror away. But that awful hand followed. In every finger were set hundreds of glittering eyes; they glared at him until they burned into his very soul. He still fled, but the hand grew larger, until it gradually bent its fingers, and tore out his heart. And yet he lived, and the shadow of the phantom hand was over him. It tortured him with unutterable torture. It dragged him away from all kith and kin. Then it opened a massive curtain, and showed him far, far down the Stream of Time. On its ever-flowing tide he saw himself, a battered wreck, drifting to the regions of immortal torture; and millions of scraggy fingers pointed at him in derision, and millions of voices cursed his name.
He awoke from this horrid dream—awoke with his heart almost standing still, and a cold and clammy perspiration bedewing his body. He sprang up with a cry of alarm, for everything in the vision had seemed so real. But when he had gathered his scattered senses, he smiled sardonically and muttered—
“Pshaw! What a fool I am to let a dream so alarm me. Am I not rich, powerful, invincible? What, then, is there to fear? These Feringhees are crushed—crushed beyond all power to rise again. I am supreme; who is there dare dispute my will?”
A man suddenly entered the chamber. In the light of the breaking day, the Nana saw that it was Azimoolah.
“What is the meaning of this, Azi?” he asked hurriedly. “Has anything occurred to alarm you, for there is a look of fear upon your face?”
“I might make a similar remark with a good deal of truth, your Highness,” answered the other with a forced laugh.
“Do not waste time in foolish recrimination, Azimoolah. What brings you here?”
“Bad news.”
“Ah! Is that so?”