“And is it to tell me this that you have sent for me?” asked Flora, in an impatient tone.
“No, no,” mumbled the King. “I said it was to gaze upon your beauty.”
“Shame upon you!” she cried. “If that is your only purpose, I command you to let me go.”
“Command, eh? Such a word becomes you not, my child. We do not allow ourselves to be commanded. Your life is in my power. If I but raise my finger, you would die. Have a care—have a care, girl.”
“If but the raising of your finger can do so much, I implore you, in the name of all you worship, to raise it and release me. Nay, doom me to the worst of deaths, so that you will only end my misery.”
“No; your time has not yet come. We will reserve you for another purpose.”
“Ah! what do you mean?” cried Flora, as she pressed her hand to her temples to still their throbbing.
The King smiled, and rubbed his palsied hands together.
“You may be useful,” he answered. “We will keep you as a hostage; and though our age precludes the likelihood of our gaining your favour, we have sons, and one of them shall try his hand at breaking your proud spirit. He has succeeded before now with your countrywomen, and I tell thee, girl, he will succeed with you.”
Flora shuddered. She inwardly prayed that she might be stricken with a merciful death upon the spot on which she stood, for she knew that she could expect no pity from her foes; and yet she cried—