“Oh, man, let your heart thrill with one touch of sympathy for me. I am a woman, helpless and alone; let that fact appeal to your manhood. Spare me. Let me go free. Do one good act, and rest assured it will bring its own reward.”
“Bah!” exclaimed the King angrily, “you people are too much given to preaching. But I am deaf to your appeals; I am steeled against your entreaties. I tell you my son shall make you his slave.”
“Never!” cried Flora, drawing herself up, while her face was scarlet with indignation. “I defy you. You can but kill me, and it were better to suffer death twenty times than become the plaything for you or yours.”
“We shall see, we shall see,” chuckled the King. “We have already one of your countrywomen here; she was more fiery than you at first, but we tamed her, and now she is as obedient as a well-trained dog. She is our tool—we use her. She shall take you in hand. Ho, Moghul!”
Moghul Singh appeared in obedience to the King’s call.
“Moghul, this woman is defiant.”
“Is she so, your Majesty?”
“Yes; and we must humble her. Where is Zula? Let her be conducted into our presence.”
Moghul bowed and withdrew.